I dare you to move
by MerryLittleMess
Summary: They were just about done with dinner when the first shot rang through the night. d'Artagnan ducked more out of instinct than anything else, throwing himself down next to half a rotten wall on the south side of the barn. He didn't even know which direction the shot had originated from, just that staying out in the open was a bad idea. "Anyone hit?", he asked.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi!** This is just a little something I came up with, because we definitely need more of our favourite four musketeers than three seasons. Reviews would be greatly appreciated!

 **Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own The Musketeers.**

 **Trigger warnings:** Please expect swearing, graphic violence, mention of physical and psychological torture and some very bad jokes.

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 **I dare you to move**

"Whatever happened to one for all and all for one?", d'Artagnan muttered, bending down to pick up and then dismiss another of the wet branches that wouldn't burn even if he'd had dry kindling. The ground was already slippery from a few days of hard rain, turning the task of gathering firewood into more of an obstacle run with little chances for reward. A fact that his fellow musketeers knew very well. Huffing, d'Artagnan gathered his meager wood supply and returned to the barn which served as their shelter for the night. Barn was an overstatement, really. It was hardly more than a leaky roof supported by four posts of moldy wood and a few porous planks in-between. Nevertheless, Aramis and Porthos seemed quite comfy, watching his return with an amused expression. Even their charge, a lady of some importance to the King, had stopped complaining. Athos seemed to be asleep.

"Already back, d'Artagnan?", Porthos asked, trying to hide the glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

"There was nothing more to find."

"Perhaps you weren't looking hard enough", Aramis suggested, tipping his head back to reveal the beginnings of a smile. D'Artagnan was not amused.

"Perhaps you three could have lent a hand."

"Perhaps. But none of us were foolish enough to engage in a shooting competition with the three best shots in the musketeer regiment. You should have known better." Athos didn't even open his eyes to watch d'Artagnan's cheeks redden. Sitting down next to them in the decidedly damp straw, he tried to defend himself even while unsuccessfully trying to create a spark and complete his duties.

"I was mislead. When Porthos said we'd be shooting at the same target, I didn't expect him to choose the target by shooting it. He'd already won before we started. That's cheating!"

"Slander!", Porthos cried out in mock anger.

"I didn't cheat", Aramis offered with a self-satisfied grin. Neither of the men acknowledged his peace-offering, knowing full well that their companion hadn't been in any risk of loosing out.

"I also thought a shooting match on horseback would implicate that all of us shoot from the same distance, not waiting until we were right next to the target like you did, Athos."

Athos shrugged non-comittally. "You didn't specify the terms."

"That's not fair."

"My point exactly. Head over heart, boy."

d'Artagnan mumbled something unintelligible and concentrated on starting the fire. He knew full well that he'd been outmaneuvered by his older comrades. Again. Somehow, he never learned no matter how often they tricked and cheated themselves out of wagers, dares and tricky situations. Even Constance is better at spotting their little deceptions. d'Artagnan smiled at the thought, his annoyance draining away. A few minutes later, he finally achieved his first goal and went to ready a meal while his friends one by one scooted closer to the fire to dry off. Contented silence ensued.

They were just about done with dinner when the first shot rang through the night.

d'Artagnan ducked more out of instinct than anything else, throwing himself down next to half a rotten wall on the south side of the barn. He didn't even know which direction the shot had originated from, just that staying out in the open was a bad idea. "Anyone hit?", he asked at the same time as Porthos groaned. Immediately, the musketeers spun around to see their brother holding his left shoulder. d'Artagnan started to move over, but Porthos waved their concern away with a half-grin, half-grimace. "Nothin' too bad, take care of it later."

Meanwhile, Aramis had taken hold of the lady, ushering her into the corner next to the young musketeer. Only Athos had stayed where he was, eying the surrounding woods with a look of disdain.

"Just when things had gotten pleasant, huh?", Aramis quipped. The lady stared at him with wide eyes and shaking limbs, shocked at his gaily demeanor. If things would have been less dire, d'Artagnan might have laughed at her outrage. "Any idea how many are out there?", he asked instead.

"I counted at least eight", Athos said, his pistol aiming at something d'Artagnan could see from his position and with the rain obscuring his view.

"Eleven", Aramis stated with confidence. "Five to the left, four on our side and two closing in from behind." The lady gasped, turning around in a panic. "What will we do? We're outnumbered! They are going to kill every single on of us! I'll never meet the King!..."

"My lady, please", Athos interrupted, his voice sharp. "Be quiet." To their surprise, the woman actually stopped ranting at once, folding her fists into her expensive dress. "Thank you", Athos said, then turned around and loosened a shot of his own. Unlike the first one, his resulted in a scream. "One down, ten to go."

"Nine", Aramis said, a grin on his face. His shot met his target, instantly felling the man. This apparently prompted the remaining men to rethink their strategy and come at them in full speed.  
"'ere we go." Porthos actually seemed happy to abandon his gun in favor of his sword, especially since his musket had jammed, probably due to the residual wetness that clung to everything. Now that the men came running, he could do some damage.

"d'Artagnan, guard the back. Porthos and Aramis, you're with me", Athos said, pulled his weapon and charged into the fray. D'Artagnan lost sight of them for a while, being busy with the two men that had been approaching the back of the barn. To his trepidation, they actually turned out to be quite good with a sword and even more so fighting in tandem. He barely had enough time to evade the blows raining down on him. Twisting to avoid being skewered, he got a look at Athos, whose three foes pressed him equally hard even though there was a heavily bleeding fourth comrade lying next to them. Nevertheless, Athos seemed to have things well in hand, whereas Porthos…

"Porthos, duck!", d'Artagnan yelled, letting his dagger fly from his weak hand to embed himself into the chest of a man that had been about to stab the musketeer in the back. His moment of inattention cost him, though, as the bigger of his two opponents managed to slice his upper arm and leave a deep cut. Cursing quietly, d'Artagnan switched his blade into his left hand and riposted. He didn't have much room to maneuver, because he had to keep himself between the men and the lady. Thus, felt the loss of his dagger dearly, receiving a few more shallow cuts before he took out one of the men with a reckless lunge Athos wouldn't have approved of. As if he'd read his thoughts, d'Artagnan heard his mentor call his name in warning, the reason being another fighter who'd managed to sneak past Athos and was now approaching the youngest.

He probably thinks I'm the easiest target. Time to prove him wrong, d'Artagnan thought, blocking a thrust from the big guy and then turning to deliver a strong kick into the solar plexus of the second. The man let out a surprised grunt, staggering back involuntarily. Unfortunately for him, Aramis' canteen had been lying forgotten right behind him. The foreign object made the man stumble further, losing his balance to land halfway on his ass and, more importantly, halfway in coals of the fire. Roaring, the man rolled in the mud for a moment, allowing d'Artagnan to focus on the big opponent. A few quick strikes had the bulky man backing up with d'Artagnan following him.

Out of the corner of his eye, the young musketeer saw the burned one get up. Instead of returning to the fight, however, the man smiled sleazily and reached for the lady. Casting a desperate look at his companions, who were too far away to intervene, d'Artagnan parried another forceful thrust. In that moment, d'Artagnan saw the scene playing out: him defeating the big guy while the other one killed their charge. He couldn't allow that to happen.

Without another thought, he turned and pushed his sword forward with as much power as he could manage. His blade caught the burned man straight in the chest, making him crumble to the floor just before he could reach the quivering woman. However, it also left his back wide open. For a moment, d'Artagnan thought his opponent might not have noticed the huge advantage and began to hope he'd be able to pivot in time. Then he felt the cold burn of metal on his lower back, slicing through the thick leathers and biting into his skin. With a scream he couldn't contain, the Gascon fell to his knees, loosing his grip on his sword in the process.

"d'Artagnan!" Although it was hard to think through the burning pain, he could hear Aramis shouting for him. He also saw the riders appearing at the edge of the field in front of the barn, backup for the attackers, no doubt. He saw Porthos bleeding from his shoulder wound and Aramis' heavy breathing as he dueled a mountain of a man. He saw the blood on the ground in front of him and felt his muscles slowly turn into jelly.

"Go for the horses!", he shouted back, reaching for his weapon with weak arms but not being able to obtain it. The man who'd injured him was close, so the young man ignored his discomfort, heaved his body onto its back and lashed out. His legs caught the man at the knees and brought him down.

"We're not leaving you!", Porthos bellowed, only to be overruled by Athos, who'd seen the new foes on the horizon as well. "We'll be back for him. Come on, let's get the lady to safety. The mission..."

"I know!", Porthos replied, anger and sorrow mixing in his eyes. Athos pulled him back relentlessly. Their commander saw Aramis pull the lady onto one of their mounts and ride away into the rain and sighed. At least that part of their mission hadn't gone down the drain. Then his eyes skipped back to their youngest brother, who was still grappling with an opponent more than a feet taller than him. It nearly ripped him in two to grab the reins of his horse, swing himself up and gallop for the safety of the woods, not daring to look back lest he abandon the mission to rescue their Gascon.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** : Thank you so much for the amazing feedback. 14 reviews and 27 follows in less than 48 hours! I'm quite overwhelmed, actually. You are the best! As a thank you, I really hurried with the next chapter. I hope you like it!

 **at Helensg** : Thanks for the suggestion, I'll try to include it in the third chapter.

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 **Chapter 2**

d'Artagnan didn't even witness the hasty retreat of his friends. He was desperately trying to buy them time and keep himself alive, a prospect which seemed almost impossible as the bigger opponent finally got him pinned beneath his muscular body. Heavy thighs straddled his torso, leaving the man's hands free while trapping d'Artagnan's. A powerful right hook brought tears to his eyes and the following left was only marginally less painful. d'Artagnan took a deep breath, spat blood onto the ground and tried to evade the next blow by moving his upper body. His wounds protested loudly and the Gascon couldn't stop the groan on his lips. Any struggle put unbearable strain on the cut on his back and without the use of either of his arms, resistance was futile. That didn't stop the young man from trying, though. He bucked for all he was worth, throwing up his hips and kicking out with his feet. The sudden move actually dislodged the heavy weight on him and elicited a curse from the older man. However, the landing caused his back explode in pain and his world went black for a moment.

He woke to sounds above him, wondering why he was still alive. A few meters next to him, a man was giving out orders. From the whinnies of multiple horses, d'Artagnan guessed the recipient was the cavalry he'd seen lingering at the edge of the woods just before Athos and the others had left.

Carefully, d'Artagnan opened one of his eyes in search of a weapon or his horse. He was still lying on his back in the mud, the little bit of straw that had covered the ground beforehand being scattered during the fight. The dirty water had long soaked through his clothes. It was ice-cold and the young musketeer had to suppress a violent shiver. The only warm parts of his body were his burning wounds, which were likely to get infected if he didn't get them cleaned soon. Aramis would be pissed, d'Artagnan thought, grinning inwardly. He could almost hear the man's pestering... feeling himself slipping back into unconsciousness, d'Artagnan decided it was high time he moved and tried to escape before the men turned their attention to him.

He'd barely moved an inch, though, when a boot planted himself on his chest and he felt the cold kiss of steel at his throat, stopping him dead in his tracks. Looking up, he saw yet another man peer down at him with a nasty grin.

While the two of them were engaged in a silent staring-contest, the leader had sent off his riders with commands to find the musketeers, get rid of them and come back with the lady as soon as possible. Then the topic of conversation turned towards their captive.

"That young one kept you pretty occupied, Aubin", the leader remarked with grudging respect. "He wouldn't stop fighting even after his friends had left him behind to die."

"Boy knocked himself out with those antics", Aubin answered with a humorless laugh. "He's a fighter, that's for sure."

"And he's awake, too", the man guarding him supplied. The leader turned around from his spot on the edge of the roof to inspect the young musketeer. His round, brown eyes lit up when he saw that the statement was true. "Ain't that wonderful, lads, we're having a guest." He knelt next to d'Artagnan, heedless of the cold and the wetness. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Remy de Balzac and I'll be your host." Then he launched into a round of introductions, spewing out a seemingly endless list of name after name. d'Artagnan didn't even try to remember them, only perking up when he was told that the man currently holding a sword to his neck was called Ouvrard.

"And you, my friend, are…?"

"d'Artagnan", he ground out between clenched teeth. The continuous pressure on his chest and thus on his lower back made him want to squirm in agony, but he held himself still. His mindful host must have noticed regardless, because he beckoned Ouvrard to step back. "I'm sure d'Artagnan doesn't plan on running away. Especially since we're surrounded by men with loaded weapons. Germain over there is our best shot." He nodded into the direction of the mountain that had previously been fighting Aramis. "And you just killed Germain's brother a few minutes ago, so I'm sure he wouldn't mind putting you down." Remy de Balzac seemed almost sad, his round cheeks sagging a little as he sighed. Then he suddenly clapped his equally round, short hands and returned to smiling happily. "Enough of the unpleasantries. Let's get you ready to move so we can get out of this miserable rain and have a nice, long conversation."

"Where are you taking me?", d'Artagnan asked, a churning pit of fear slowly developing in his stomach. He knew it had been foolish to hope they'd stay at the rundown barn to question him, but any mile that lead him away would make it harder for his brothers to find him once they'd completed the mission. Nonetheless, the remaining musketeers wouldn't reach Paris in less than two days, meaning a rescue would be unlikely. As Remy told him he'd know soon enough, d'Artagnan grimly resigned himself to try and escape by himself - in unknown terrain with possibly a large number of enemies.

He was suddenly ripped out of his musings when two men grabbed his shoulders and roughly pulled him to his feet. d'Artagnan screamed, his legs unable to carry his weight. Sweat matted his already drenched hair as he tried to breathe through the pain. Remy looked at him sharply, clearly wondering whether he was faking. Meeting his eyes, d'Artagnan allowed his pain to show in his features, which quickly convinced the other man. "Michel, see what you can do about… that." He gestured at the pale Gascon.

"Yes, my lord." d'Artagnan was quickly examined by the smallest and least dirty of the men, a redhead with a kind face, whose eyes widened when he saw the damage that had been done to the boy's back. "Remarkable that he's even awake. The pain level alone..."

"Yes, I'm quite sure our young friend is exceptional. He's a musketeer after all. The question is, can he ride?", Remy interrupted, a lot less friendly with his own men than with his guest. After a moment of indecision, Michel wrapped d'Artagnans back and right arm in bandages and admitted that, yes, he'd be fit to ride. "Although I would recommend using a cart..."

"Enough, Michel." Another wagging of Remy's thick fingers had the impromptu doctor backing up while another pulled out a rope to bind d'Artagnan's wrists together. Remy watched them with rigid eyes that reminded the Gascon of a hawk. He didn't seem happy with the sloppy ties his men provided as none of them thought the trembling youth capable of escaping a dozen well-armed men.

"Do it again, this time tightly and behind his back. There is no need to give our guest any wrong ideas."

"Yes, my lord." Ouvrard pushed one of the men aside, pulled off the rope and cast d'Artagnan another mean glare as he forcefully retied it. d'Artagnan endured the treatment without uttering another sound, even when a disappointed Ouvrard clamped his hand down on the cut on his upper arm. He tried to be equally stoic as they put him on one of their horses and tied him to the saddle, but the pain of riding made him grimace with every step. Every hoof-beat sent tiny daggers into his back, causing him to focus entirely on staying awake and not giving his captors the satisfaction of seeing him falter. He only hoped they wouldn't be riding too long but at the same time feared what might await him at their destination.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Don't look back. Don't look back. Do not look back. Do not, under any circumstances, look back!", the lady whispered, her face ashen. Her hands gripped the mane of the horse so tightly Aramis almost felt sorry for the mount. Moreover, the woman kept talking to herself, one instance reassuring herself that they would be alright and the next despairing. Right now she seemed to be convinced that if she didn't look, she wouldn't see their pursuers and perhaps they would vanish. If it only were that easy, Aramis thought, his easy smile slipping.

They had ridden hard in an effort to loose the dozen new riders in the forest, but the men were experienced and weren't shaken without difficulty. In fact, Aramis wasn't sure they'd be able to gain any ground on them. They needed a miracle, but Lady Luck seemed to be busy elsewhere tonight.

Sighing, Aramis looked ahead towards the dark outline of Athos. The man hadn't spoken a single word since they'd left the barn, contrary to Porthos' constant swearing and the lady's muttering. Not one for conversation even on his good days, Athos might have been alright if not for the look in his eyes before he'd taken the lead. Aramis had rarely seen such emptiness.

Deciding to stop his friend from eating himself alive any further, he caught up to him. "Athos." No reaction whatsoever, even when he repeated himself with more volume in order to be heard over the pouring rain and the noise of the horses. "Athos!"

"Athos, it was not your fault." Aramis reached out to touch his friend's shoulder, but Athos lead his horse around a group of trees and thereby evaded the touch. Aramis followed, urging his mount to catch up again. The lady in front of him continued her ceaseless litany, but Aramis steadfastly ignored her.

"Athos! We need a plan. If we don't get rid of them", he shouted, gesturing at the dozen men at their backs, "we will never make it back and we'll never be able to save d'Artagnan!" Blunt words, yes, but they seemed to be enough to push Athos away from the edge. His blue eyes cleared, the shoulders that had been squashed by the self-imposed guilt squaring at least a little. A quick nod was all the confirmation Aramis needed. He grinned, knowing he had his brother back, at least for the moment. And God help their enemies if they stood in their way to their missing Gascon.

After a moment of consideration, Athos veered left, taking them down a narrow path leading towards the river Aramis heard thundering in the distance. He didn't have any idea what plan they were acting upon, but followed without hesitation. Behind him, Porthos did the same. Suddenly, the woods opened up to a steep riverbank, its torrents racing, breaking against a formation of rocks to create waves three times a man's size. The riverbank began right next to the path, less than half a meter of slippery earth separating them from the frigid spray. Seeing that the path didn't continue in front of them, Aramis called out to Athos.

"I hope we're not crossing that?", he dared to inquire, slightly rattled by the determined stare of his leader.

"No", Athos replied evenly, "We're gonna get up there."

"You must be mad! That path is steeper than the road to heaven and not even paved. The horses will balk. We're going to get thrown off. And then..."

"My lady?", Athos asked politely.

"Yes?"

"Shut up!", Porthos supplied from the back, prompting another smile on Aramis' face and a huff from the woman. They took an even narrower path of switchbacks upwards, coaxing their skittish horses most of the way. Aramis was glad they had chosen experienced mounts at the garrison or else they might have never made it as far.

Nevertheless, their process was torturously slow. Already Aramis could see the first rider emerging from the thick forest. He'd be right below them in a minute. Porthos, who had realized the same thing, jumped off his horse and pulled a heavy, melon-sized rock out of the mud. "Better than bullets."

"I take it we're not trying to escape?", Aramis said cheerfully, also dismounting. He could only agree with Porthos' gleeful demeanor, finding that his willingness to resort to violence matched his brother's. He was geared up for a fight, not for a prolonged cat-and-mouse game. Together they quickly piled up more than enough projectiles and Aramis was getting into position when the woman's muttering pulled him out of his preparations. "Lunatics! Absolutely insane. Off the rocker, so to say. Touched in the head! Suicidal..."

Annoyed and past the point of caring about the repercussions, the normally charming musketeer wordlessly helped the woman out of her saddle and dumped her on the ground. Then he continued by putting a rock into the fist of the astonished woman. Her manicured nails were already smudged with dirt, but she pressed her lips closed and didn't complain any further.

"There they come", Porthos informed him. They didn't need to talk to let Aramis make the most of their moment of surprise and score the first hit, which he did with precision. The foremost rider toppled from his grey stallion, sliding down into the river to disappear and never be seen again. Porthos achieved the same result by hitting the third rider in the chest with a decidedly larger stone. "That's for d'Artagnan!"

Athos took care of the fourth man after missing once due to the horse stumbling out of the way. Meanwhile, the second and fifth, as well as the next two riders had recovered from their shock and began to clamber up the sharp incline towards them. By the time the first one reached the upper level of the path were the three musketeers were located, they had lost half their number. Athos mercilessly kicked the first one to get to his feet back down the slope. Then he pulled his sword and engaged his foes for the second time that night. This time around, the battlefield and tactics had dramatically changed: the high ground was on their side and they now had the anger at the loss of a comrade to fuel their every strike.

Porthos felled a man with a single sweeping blow while Aramis fought two foes at once, lightning-fast even though his muscles screamed in exhaustion and he could hardly see anything in the dim light. One of his opponents managed to push him back with an ingenious flurry of strikes but just as Aramis began to fear that they weren't as superior as they'd thought, his other opponent stumbled, teetering dangerously close to the edge and holding a bleeding gash on the back of his head. Aramis was only too happy to oblige Lady Luck and kicked the man into the river, thereby exposing the lady standing a few meters away. She was breathing hard, her arm still outstretched from her throw. Aramis decided to revise his low opinion of her, shooting her a quick look of appreciation.

One on one, the attacker didn't stand a chance against the musketeer and soon took the same way down as his comrade. Now free to look for his brothers, Aramis saw that Porthos was chasing two unarmed men down the switchback near the river's edge.

Athos, on the other hand, was cornered on both sides by a man each. While Aramis was watching, a brutal thrust sent Athos' sword flying. The musketeer reacted by burying his dagger in the neck of his attacker. He turned just in time to evade the blow of the second man, then apparently decided that common sense was an unnecessary commodity and rushed the armed foe. In the last possible moment, he side-stepped the blow to his midsection by jumping onto a higher outcropping on the cliff, using the momentum to bowle the man over. They both tumbled down the through the greenery, their momentum carrying them right into the river.

By the time Athos and the other man were fully submerged in the racing torrent, Aramis was more than halfway down the embankment as well. He blindly thrust his arm into the swirling water, multiple paces downstream from the position he'd last spotted his friend's head. His fingers caught on something woolen, which turned out to be the collar of Athos' cloak. Quickly, Aramis gripped his brother more tightly and with Porthos' help pulled him back onto more or less solid ground.

Athos coughed while Aramis stared at him with wide eyes. "The lady was right. You truly are a lunatic."

Shrugging off the help, Athos replied something, but it was impossible to hear it over the roaring of the river.

"What was that?", Porthos asked.

"At least...", Athos stood up, wringing out his shirt. The corners of his lips turned up into a tiny smile as he met his two brothers' incredulous stares. "At least I'm clean now."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** : This chapter is a little longer, I hope you don't mind. ;) Please don't forget to leave a comment below!

 **at pallysdeeks** : Your wish is my command. I'm currently working on including your idea. It's a really interesting one, by the way. Thanks for suggesting it.

 **at Debbie** : Thanks to you too for your suggestion. I'll try to include that prop you mentioned later on.

 **at all** , especially **Deana** : No worries, there's lots of hurt still to come for all the boys.

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 **Chapter 4**

A feeling of dread washed over d'Artagnan as he spotted the blood seeping out from beneath door number three. It wasn't the only bad omen so far. There were murmurs of pain emanating from several of the rooms on this corridor and d'Artagnan was pretty sure that he'd spotted rats and multiple species of vermin, none of which seemed to alarm either of the men dragging him along. The smell of something rotten and long forgotten penetrated his nose and made him want to gag.

Whatever this cellar was being used for, it was a lot worse than the Châtelet had ever been. The young man swallowed forcefully, trying his best to suppress his fear and ready himself for what was to come. His breathing still hitched, though, when Remy stopped in front of the second to last door on the right. "This will be your room", he said, opened the door and entered. The men and, as a result, d'Artagnan, followed. One of them let go of him for an instant in order to lock them in.

The rattling of the key held something final. Remy didn't seem to feel the same sense of foreboding as his captive, though. Instead, he smiled happily. "Now that there's just the four of us, you should get comfortable. Strip."

"What?", d'Artagnan asked, taken aback. His mind spun with the numerous implications of that statement, taking him dark places he definitely didn't want to go. Ouvrard at his right side smiled evilly. "You heard him. Strip."

"Why?" To his credit, d'Artagnan's voice didn't shake. His eyes darted between the men, finally settling on his ever so graciously smiling host.

"You won't be needing your armor any longer. And neither will you have need of your clothing." d'Artagnan watched Remy choose his words carefully and realized he was being toyed with, the vague answers only adding to his general discomfort, as well as the order to undress in front of his tormentors. He'd be far on the back foot before things even got serious. Nevertheless, he couldn't stop himself from asking what would happen if he was fond of his uniform and wanted to keep it. The question seemed to anger the man, his wide brows knitting above the round, deep-set eyes.

"Let's make this easy, lad. Either you strip down or my men help you. It's your decision, but make it now."

d'Artagnan thought for a moment, wondering what Athos would do. Would he give in? Of course not, his mind instantly supplied, we are musketeers and musketeers would never bow down to their captors. However, another voice that sounded remarkably like his mentor urged him to reconsider. Head over heart. Struggling wouldn't get him anywhere right now, probably just earn him further injuries that would later on hinder an escape.

"Fine." Seething inside, d'Artagnan slowly unfastened the buckles of his pauldron, letting it fall to the ground. Without it, he suddenly felt very vulnerable and less connected to his friends back home. They'd come for him, he reassured himself and continued. His empty weapons belt followed the pauldron, soon to be accompanied by his leather jacket, boots and socks. d'Artagnan shivered as his bare feet touched the cold, moist stones beneath him, his body torn between the uncomfortable warmth of an onsetting fever and the sensation of being halfway naked during a winter night.

Taking off his shirt provided a challenge with his right arm nearly useless from the pain and his back throbbing at every movement. Not that d'Artagnan minded taking longer than usual. He was not looking forward to the inevitable interrogation that would follow this humiliating procedure. Finally, he began to unlace his trousers, but thankfully, Remy stopped him. "That's enough – for now. Ouvrard, if you please."

Never loosing that smirk, the older man bent down and picked one of the shackles that were lying next to the wall. d'Artagnan followed the motions with his eyes, scorn filling them as he noticed the brownish-red stains on the iron that were almost certainly made of dried blood. He wondered how many people had worn them before him as his hands were bound in front of his body. Unlike the chains he'd worn the first time he'd been imprisoned, this one was composed of only a few links and kept his hands right in front of his stomach. Just as he'd filed that information away, another observation made him tense. The ring at the end of the other chain Ouvrard was holding and that would tether its wearer to the wall was too wide to be fastened around his ankle.

"It's a collar", Remy explained helpfully. "Quite fitting for one of the king's hounds, isn't it?"

The young musketeer hesitated for a moment, hating the idea of the metal around his neck but being helpless to stop it. Hellbent on not being cowed by a rogue country lord and his minions, he imitated Athos' best you-are-all-peasants-and-so-far-beneath-me expression and drawled "If you say so."

Remy laughed. "Confident, are we?" In truth, d'Artagnan felt anything but, standing bare-chested in front of three men that were intent on getting answers he didn't want to give. He opted for saying nothing at all as Ouvrard traded places with Germain, the huge man whose brother the musketeer had killed in combat. The mountain stepped up next to Remy, glaring down at their prisoner.

"Here are the rules. I ask, you answer. If you don't answer truthfully, my men will hit you. If you don't answer at all, they will hit you. If you try to anything, they will hit you. If you..."

"Thanks, I get it", d'Artagnan interrupted, calmer and more his normal self now that things were actually happening. His sharp tongue wouldn't do him much good, though, he realized as his head was thrown around by a resounding backhand, courtesy of Germain. The mountain smiled, stating in a delighted manner that he was going to "enjoy beatin' the shit out of this insolent brat". d'Artagnan, on the contrary, was sure he wouldn't enjoy any of it. Damn, that man packed a mean punch.

With his ears still ringing from the blow and blood dripping from his split lip, the young man decided that he needed to change his strategy if he wanted to have any chance of being mobile enough to escape once they left him alone. Clearly, staying quiet and stoic like Athos would result in one hell of a beating, which he couldn't risk. So if Athos' method would not be working, what would Aramis and Porthos do if they were in his shoes? That's easy, d'Artagnan thought with a smile at the obviously surprised Germain, they'd bluff, mislead, cheat and trick their way out of this mess.

"Are you thinking about your friends?", Remy inquired, smiling back sanctimoniously. His kind exterior fell away as he once and for all shed his friendly behavior like a snake shed his skin. "Let me guess: you still think they are coming back for you. That's rather… cute. They were followed by no less than fourteen of my best men and are most likely dead by now."

Under normal circumstances, d'Artagnan would have winced. And although he felt a pang of worry gnawing at his stomach, he had realized a critical detail that was unknown to his captor: things had gotten personal for his brothers, which would prompt them to behave far beyond their normal best. There really would be no stopping them. That's why he wasn't even fazed by the next part of Remy's tirade.

"And even if they survived by some miracle, why would they come for you? Evidently, they don't care for you. Not. One. Little. Bit. They left you behind, knowing full well that you were about to die. These men you call brothers, they abandoned you. I guess 'one for all and all for one' didn't extend to you, huh? Why would you want to keep their secrets and endure all that pain for them if they weren't willing to risk themselves for you?"

"Because I serve my country and those men you're talking about - we're family", he replied. And there must have been something in his tone to indicate how certain he was, because Remy pulled up short, studying him with newfound anger. After a while of thoughtful silence, Remy apparently decided to forgo further discussion of that topic and come back to the facts.

"Where were you taking the lady Lemaigre?" d'Artagnan considered the question, remembering how much the man had already known about the lady and his profession as a musketeer of the king. Surely, he would have guessed their destination already?

"To out capital city, Paris."

"Why?"

"To meet important people."

"Who?"

"The king, the queen, the cardinal, the minister or some other noble, who knows?", d'Artagnan said, hoping that his skills at deception had gotten better during the last few hours since Athos, Aramis, Constance and Porthos always told him that he was a bad liar. Nonetheless, it seemed as if a stranger like Remy had trouble discerning his lies from the truth.

"If you don't know to whom you're taking her, then who gave you your orders?"

"My captain, of course", d'Artagnan stated without thinking. Frustrated, the man opposite him yet again changed his line of questioning.

"Which route are they taking?"

"A quick one, I presume."

"Where will they go?" Remy was almost screaming now, raking his hand over his red face.

"Since your men are chasing them, they will most likely head for an area with thick vegetation to cover their retreat", d'Artagnan explained patiently, inwardly smirking despite the pain. Channeling Aramis turned out to be more fun than expected. His captor didn't share the amusement, though. He voiced his discontent by socking the musketeer in the nose, which at least hurt a lot less than a hit from Germain.

"What does she know?", Remy demanded, unperturbed by the drops of blood that were now marring his finely embroidered shirt.

"About what?", d'Artagnan countered, receiving a blow to his stomach for his troubles. This one actually hurt a bit since it took his air away and made his back scream at him. Once he could breathe again, his host specified the question. "What does she know about my affairs?"

"No idea."

"That's a shame", Remy said, managing to sound incredibly sad while looking the exact opposite. He stepped closer to the freezing young man in order to grip his hair and pull his head back until it was bent an awkward angle, the edge of the iron collar digging into his skin. It made breathing nearly impossible and prompted d'Artagnan to hiss in pain. "See, I know the lady better than you think. I know how much of a tattletale she is. No doubt she told you all about her conspiracy theories. Lies, of course, but I'd still like to be aware of the misinformation she's relating to others."

"Can't help you, I'm afraid", d'Artagnan repeated laboriously. As Remy stepped back and shook his head in disappointment, allowing Germain to work off some of his anger, the young musketeer felt an unbelieving giggle bubble its way up his throat. He had answered truthfully for once, because he didn't possess any information to offer the men even if he'd wanted to tell. It was ironic, really. The lady had indeed tried to spread her news of the treason she'd witnessed, but the musketeers had asked her to keep her knowledge to herself until she was in the king's presence lest they be overheard.

During the next painful hour, d'Artagnan's answers stayed as vague and unhelpful as he could muster and judging by his captor's reaction, he was assertive that he was doing a good job. Finally, Remy's patience was spent. He huffed several times, wringing his hands at the stubbornness of his captive.

"I am going to leave you for a while to consider your smartest course of action. When I get back, I'll expect you to have some useful answers ready." He turned to go, beckoning for his henchmen to let go of d'Artagnan. Ouvrard took the opening to pull the musketeer's feet out from under him and give his shoulders a good shove so that the young man landed on his back with a groan of agony. Meanwhile, Germain had opened the passage into the hallway. They prepared to leave only to be held back by the raspy voice of the Gascon.

"Wait."

"Yes, my friend?", Remy inquired politely.

"I am running a fever."

"So...?" His host didn't seem interested in his esteemed guest's welfare any longer.

"I'm not going to be of much use to you if I'm delirious, am I?", d'Artagnan challenged. He could already feel the temperature of his body rise due to the infection either in his arm or, more likely, in the deeper cut on his back. His skin was coated in a layer of sweat, yet he was shivering, this time not because of the cold. Remy saw the signs as well, putting his hand on his hip while he considered the request. Then his expression became impassive. "You want medicine? Answer my questions."

"Bastard", d'Artagnan muttered, but the insult only prompted a laugh and snickers from his captors.

"I'll be taking this", Remy said on his way to the door and retrieved d'Artagnan's uniform from the floor. "And your weapons for my armory, too, of course, since you'll have no further use for them."

The musketeer glared at him in anger. "Go impale yourself on them!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Something was wrong. Athos knew rabbits came in different colors, but he was pretty sure that bright pink and slightly on fire was not one of them. Slowly, he turned around to look after the fleeing animal while also sharing a long, disbelieving stare with Aramis.

"Did you see the…", Aramis began, then stopped, apparently unable to describe the smoldering bunny without some time to process the vision. "I did." Athos said matter-of-factly and strode onwards. He didn't wait for a dumbstruck Porthos and Aramis, nor did he tease the latter musketeer about his very non-characteristic silence like he would normally do. Instead, he continued on, determined to forget all about the apparition. He wasn't that lucky, though, as another color-dripping animal stormed by in a panic, this time a sunflower-yellow cat that quickly disappeared into the elaborate hedge maze of the palace grounds.

"What in God's name...", Aramis whispered as their ears were assaulted by something that sounded a lot like an explosion. Without another word, the three musketeers broke into a run, Porthos only slowing down to keep an eye on the astonished lady they still had in tow. Once they came into view of the central garden, they were greeted by a picture of utter mayhem.

To their left, they could see the burning ruins of a stage, its skeleton looming over them like a giant torch. A few artistes were valiantly trying to put out the fire, but were having little success as they were hindered by the myriad of animals that were running wild through the garden. Apparently, there had also been painters, their upturned buckets and ripped canvases the only memento. Now their art-stations were home to a blue-violet rhino and a herd of colorful geese that were munching on petite-fours. Would it be called cannibalism if one of them ate goose giblets, Athos wondered absently while searching for the figure of the king amidst the chaos. No question that Louis was in some way involved in this miscarried extravaganza.

"Excuse me!" A waiter bumped into Athos on his way towards the exploding firecrackers on the other side of the gardens. Upon seeing who he'd shoved, the waiter's expression turned hopeful. "Master Athos! You must help us! The fireworks are dangerously close to igniting the king's brandy reserves he had us put right next to that stall..."

Athos fixated the man with an inapproachable glare that clearly said none of this was his concern until the frightened man scampered off. Porthos caught up with the group just in time to hear the end of their one-sided argument. He patted Athos on the back consolingly. "Shame about the alcohol, I know, but we've got bigger fish to fry."

Meanwhile, Aramis had caught sight of the queen and lead them to the place where she resided over the remnants of court. She had the wide-eyed Dauphin on her lap and had managed to escape the situation without loosing her air of dignity.

"Your majesty", Athos greeted respectfully. At her smile, he continued. "If I may ask: Where is Treville? Surely he and some other musketeers were stationed here in order to provide safety."

"I believe the king sent him to chase after the hot air balloon"

"The hot air balloon?", Aramis repeated in a low voice, but was kept quiet by a look from Athos, who did not allow them to stray from their mission even for a second.

"And where is the king?"

"Over there." The queen nodded her head in the direction of a group of tall birch trees at the edge of the festivities. Even though her face had remained neutral, Athos felt the distinct vibe of annoyance radiating off her. Aramis had obviously picked up on it too.

"May I offer you my assistance, my queen? Why don't I escort you inside while Athos and Porthos fetch his majesty? We have urgent business with the king." Upon hearing the seriousness of his vioce, the queen's expression became thoughtful and caring. "Where is d'Artagnan?"

"He's not with us, my queen, hence the urgency of our audience with the king", Aramis answered sadly while he watched Athos slump in on himself further. Every time one of them tried talking to him, he would shrug them off, but whenever the name of their youngest was mentioned, Aramis could see how much his perceived failure to protect the boy stung his brother.

Said brother had moved over to the trees with Porthos and the lady trailing behind. He had spotted the king, who was leaning against the bark of a tree and was apparently admiring a huge red flower in his hand with rapt attention. When Athos greeted him, the king, who for some reason was sotting wet, jumped in surprise, then smiled.

"Athos! Look at this beauty, isn't it marvellous?", he wanted to know, smiling brightly and showing all his teeth. Athos looked over Louis' shoulder at the carnage the king was ignoring and noticed a tiger chasing a red guard around the fountain, prompting Athos' dark mood to improve ever so slightly. Nevertheless, he would have liked nothing more than to drag the king back to the palace by his collar to discuss the rescue of d'Artagnan. However, needs must, so he glanced at the flower instead. "Yes, your majesty. Perhaps we could return inside now. We have completed the mission..."

"The mission? Oh yes, that." The king didn't seem to be very interested, hardly glancing up at them. Athos gnashed his teeth behind his unbothered facade.

"It's very important, your majesty. I have vital information regarding the secrets of Spain", the lady suddely interjected, finally tearing the king's attention away from the plant in his hand. Both Athos and Porthos looked at her with newfound appreciation when the king carelessly let the flower drop and sauntered towards the palace entrance. On the way, Porthos leaned over to the woman. "Why so unusually silent, my lady?", he asked, unable to contain his curiosity. The lady beamed at him, her eyes wide with delight when her face was lit up by another explosion in the gardens. "This evening is one for the history books", she whispered in awe. "I'll tell my grandkids of this and nobody will believe me. Oh, how they're gonna stare!" Porthos snorted.

They entered the palace where Aramis was waiting with the queen and Athos was glad of the silence that engulfed them once the thick doors were closed. He took a moment to order the thoughts in his worry-warped mind, then he approached the king again. "Your majesty, this is the lady Lemaigre. She has news of grave importance." Leaving the floor to the lady, he stepped back. His gaze crossed with the woman's, making him glad that their relationship had greatly improved after the altercation at the river. Now he knew that she wouldn't waste any time on their new mission – resciung the "young hero who sacrificed his noble life for hers" as she'd put it. Athos guessed the elderly woman had a crush on the Gascon, but right now he couldn't have cared less. Instead, he listened with keen interest as she told the king that her neighboring noble, the comte de Balzac, was in fact an impostor and a spanish spy. "It was also he who attacked us on the road."

"Are you certain? Such allegations are very dangerous", the king admonished.

"I am absolutely convinced, your majesty. And I have proof."

"Oh?"

"The late comte de Balzac, Remy's father and I, we were lovers. You must know, I wasn't always as... wealthy as I am now. Back then, fifteen years ago, I was a maid of his wife. There was no love between them, but I am nonetheless not proud of what I've done."

"My lady", Athos said quietly, putting the chagrined storyteller back on track.

"The comte and his son left for Spain on a business trip. They planned to be gone two years, so nobody suspected anything when a message came that the ailing comte had died and his son needed to stay to take care of things. He only returned a year ago, your majesty, but it wasn't Remy. I'd know that boy anywhere. After I decided to investigate, I found these." Reaching unashamedly into her decollete, the lady produced a small stack of papers.

"Contracts with the Spanish, exchanging information about your majesty's fleet, trading routes and so on for money and goods." The king still wasn't fully convinced, asking whether the papers might not be a forgery or some kind of trap in order to create unrest in his country. Now he suddenly starts to think for himself, Athos thought grimly, deciding his majesty could not have picked a worse moment to grow into himself. The lady saved his barely maintained picture of indifferentness by answering without any concern.

"The impostor had no reason to suspect me. He knew I had been a commoner before the comte left and thought me a safe choice as an acquaintance. Only after I stole his documents and sent for help did he realize who I was."

"Oh", the king repeated and tapped his foot while he mulled things over. Athos didn't give him more time to ask useless questions but gave a concise report of the events that had lead them to stand here. "Therefore, I would like to mount a rescue mission, your majesty", Athos closed his speech, waiting anxiously. With every heartbeat that passed, he felt d'Artagnan's time run out. Who knew what they were doing to him while the king was undecided? Who knew whether he was even still...

"Surely, the king doesn't want his champion to stay in the enemies' hands?", the queen implied innocently. Her face betrayed her distress for the missing musketeer and Athos knew she worried not only for d'Artagnan but also for Aramis' and perhaps even Porthos' and his own safety.

"Alright, Athos. Bring me back my musketeer and the traitor, too." As one, the three remaining musketeer's let out a breath of relief. The lady, on the other hand, was displeased. "The impostor would have brought my... would have brought the musketeer d'Artagnan to his home if he wanted to question him and the grounds of the comte de Balzac are wide and well-protected. His mansion is build like a fortress, ready to withstand an army. And his men, they are well-trained. You'll never get inside unnoticed."

"And what do you suggest we do?", Porthos demanded, his eyebrow twitching in anger.

"Don't try to get in unnoticed", the lady replied smugly, "Use my invitation."

"Invitation?", Aramis repeated.

"Yes, I am invited to a ball the day after tomorrow, I believe. My name is not on the envelope, however, so you could utilise it instead and enter in disguise", the lady stated and showed them another letter she'd produced from her voluminous bosom.

"A ball?" Aramis sounded as if he couldn't believe it. If this trend continued, they would need to call the musketeer a parrot from now on, Athos determined, the shred of hope reigniting his sense of humor.

"It is decided! The musketeers shall attend the ball and save France!", the king declared grandly, grinning at them. Athos sighed.


	6. Chapter 6

It's a nightmare to wake up from and a nightmare to wake up to the sight of your own blood pooling beneath you. The world is fuzzy and off-kilter, but at least it's not the suffocating blackness of before. d'Artagnan tried to stay positive, but he could hardly find anything uplifting in his current situation. His left eye was swollen shut and a few smaller cuts on his face were still leaking blood, as was the wound on his arm that had seeped through the saturated bandage. He didn't even want to consider his back and the inferno that spread from it to his trembling limbs.

As a large, shiny cockroach crawled over his outstretched hand, d'Artagnan felt like crying from the pain, the exhaustion and the hopelessness. Where were his brothers? They'd never forsake him, but why weren't they here when he needed them so dearly?

The young musketeer allowed himself three deep breaths in order to get his emotions and the pain under control, then used his elbows to prop himself up. Bad idea. The hammers pounding on his head immediately propagated and relocated themselves into his stomach, making him violently expell its contents onto the floor. Keeping himself elevated and breathing through it as best as he could, d'Artagnan vowed he would not fall back down into his own vomit. His dignity might be mostly dead, but he wasn't there yet. With this singular goal in mind, he actually managed to get to his feet, albeit swaying unsteadily. The young man would have liked to blame his condition on hunger and thirst, yet he didn't feel either of those although it must have been nearly evening again. A full day without food, d'Artagnan mused, I should be famished...

"Now what?", he could almost hear Constance's impatient voice guiding him. "They'll be back soon and then all your hard work will be for naught. Go get out of there and come back to me! I love you!" Yes, well, perhaps that last bit was wishful thinking on his part, but d'Artagnan sure hoped the fierce beauty would give him another chance if he ever got back home.

Determined to change the if into when, the young man surveyed his cell in search of anything that would serve to detach his chains from the wall. Firstly, his eyes landed on the other shackles, but he'd never be able to reach them as his collar would hold him back. His fingers ghosted over the offending metal around his neck, unfortunately not finding any weak spots. The lock, however, seemed rather crude, which made d'Artagnan smile as he thought again of his brothers. Athos had helped him during the ride, Aramis had provided a way to endure the interrogation, now Porthos would help him escape this hellhole.

All he needed was a pick. There! Something metallic glinted underneath the dirty straw across the room. With a start, d'Artagnan realized that his host had laced the straw with odd bits of metal, their sharp edges providing none of the comfort the moldy bedside promised. After swallowing his anger at the dirty trick, the musketeer realized something equally vexing. Ouvrard had chained him too far away to even make it to the straw.

"Probably out of the kindness of his heart, didn't want me to hurt myself", d'Artagnan commented darkly. Scanning the room again, his desperation grew as he knew that Remy would not be gone forever. Furthermore, his legs benevolently informed him that he would not be staying upright much longer. Thus, he got down to his knees and crawled across the icy stones until the collar began to restrict his air supply. He was close to the straw and the nail he'd elected to be transformed into an impromptu key, so very close. Extending his legs completely, he could nearly touch it.

This is going to hurt, he thought, took a deep breath and pulled his body forward another few precious inches, thereby choking himself. It was worth the effort, though, as he deftly rolled the piece of metal towards his bound hands. d'Artagnan had never been so glad to hold a rusty, bent with age nail in his grasp and could have kissed it.

His elation passed quickly as he worked on the lock. Without being able to see what he was doing due to the poor angle and with fingers as shaky and numb as his, he more often missed than accomplished anything. His neck began to throb from the forming hematoma and the small wounds he inflicted on himself, his breathing turning ragged as he concentrated solely on the keyhole and on his left hand holding the pick. In spite of his growing list of aches, d'Artagnan refused to give up and resign himself to staying in Remy's care. He simply refused to die in this miserable place and after what felt like an eternity his patience was rewarded with the satisfying click of a lock breaking open.

"Thank you, Porthos", d'Artagnan whispered and let his bloody hands drop into his lap. He dimly remembered that he'd been annoyed with the gentle giant as he'd drilled the moves into him after he'd been shackled to the King and nearly been made into a galley slave a few weeks back. Promising never to dismiss his friend's teachings ever again, the young man pulled a Houdini on the door lock as well.

Stepping out into the hallway, the musketeer used the time his eyes needed to adapt to the flickering torchlight to debate whether to release the other prisoners as well. Perhaps they could help him his heart argued, but his strategic mind couldn't dismiss the fact that they'd never be able to get away in a group. Somebody would notice them and they'd just be where they'd started or worse, be killed. That left him alone to figure out how to get to safety.

d'Artagnan tiptoed through the hallway, bracing himself against the wall when he needed to. At the next intersection, he spied both a set of wide stairs leading upwards into more artificial light and several other corridors. Because of the low voices he could hear above, he decided to stay on his level of the building for now.

After dimissing a wine cellar and a few supply closets, he finally found an empty cubbyhole that featured a window at its upper coner. Pale moonlight greeted the hopeful brown eyes of the musketeer as he peered outside to find that the opening was conveniently disguised by a set of hawthorn bushes. The only drawbacks were the two thick bars that separated the prisoner from freedom. Those would have to go. But how? With a suppressed groan, d'Artagnan considered his options: searching for another way out, searching for a file or a lever or using what he had at hand, namely the chains around his already abraded wrists. Now he was glad that he hadn't taken the time to open them and leave them behind, because they'd be able to grate away the rotten bars. Resigning himself to do things the hard way, he slung his chains around the first bar and, suppressing a shout of pain as his back was strained, got to work.

After a few minutes spent in a balance between misery, sweat and the grinding of metal on metal, both bars were loose and d'Artagnan could almost feel the taste of being free on his lips. Too late, he noticed the shouts from the direction of his former cell and the approaching footsteps. Cursing under his breath, the musketeer pried the second bar loose, then froze. In a split second decision he'd probably rue 'till his last days, he pushed the bar back into place, because he'd never have enough time to heave his tired body out the window and then outrun his captors.

Hence, the agenda of the day had changed from returning home to wrecking as much havoc as possible. For this purpose, he pulled the nail out of the bands of his trousers, making sure its sharp tip was sticking out between the index- and middlefinger of his fist. Subsequently, he waited with baited breath until he could hear Remy leading his men down the corridor. In this moment of anticipation, d'Artagnan was reminded of Athos' words before they'd set out from the garrisson towards his first attempt at dueling. "There's nothing noble or innocent about predators, humanoid or otherwise, and the sooner you learn that, the safer you'll be. Meet them on their level."

Thinking that the last thing they'd expect would be a charge, d'Artagnan of course charged the group. He went straight for Remy's eyes with the intention to blind the man. The move would have succeeded, too, if Germain had not pushed his leader out of the way in the last second. Instead of plunging the nail into his host's eye, he left a deep gash on his cheek and earned himself a high cry of pain. Then a kick into the unbalanced musketeer's back brought him down. d'Artagnan must have blacked out for a moment, because he returned to the land of the living to find a raging Remy standing above him while Germain sat on his legs and another goon pulled his chained hands outwards so that he was stretched out on his stomach.

Remy looked on, watching d'Artagnan's struggles slowly cease as exhaustion and pain crept in. "I should kill you for that, you son of a bitch!", the older man hissed, finding his gaze reflected with equal anger by the fearless Gascon. "Do it. Kill me already!" Then, more quietly: "You can't, can you? You still need me." It wasn't clear to either of the men whether d'Artagnan was voicing a hope or a regretful fact.

Nevertheless, Remy wasn't appeased by the deep disillusionment he could see lingering in the taut lines of his prisoner's face. Smirking evilly, he pulled is heeled boot up to hover above d'Artagnan's left hand. The good hand after his right one was still useless due to the wound on the arm. He took a moment to relish the fear on the boy's face, then stomped down multiple times. As d'Artagnan's screams echoed from the walls, he bent down and gripped the boy's chin, forcing their gazes to meet. "I might need you for now, friend, but I won't need you forever, nor do I need you intact. It would be better if you kept that in mind before you try something like this again."

"That'll teach him to keep his mouth shut and his ass where we put it", Ouvrard sniggered in the distance.

They dragged him back to his cell, all the while using his shackles to pull him along and disregarding the moans of pain that treatment elicited from the half-conscious musketeer. When Michel was summoned to patch him up, they were surprised to see d'Artagnan resist the small man and denying anyone access to his hand that was cradled close to his chest.

Remy's thoughtful gaze lingered on the stubborn fighter for a moment, then he called for his henchmen to bring Amantine. Despite himself, d'Artagnan focused when he saw a woman being ushered into his cell, partly because he recognized her voice as the one that had called out from behind door number three when he'd been brought in. She was in a slightly better condition than himself, d'Artagnan judged, her blond hair mattet with dirt and grime and her clothes shredded, her nose obviously broken. But he could find no reason for the amount of blood he'd seen beneath the door to her cell.

Remy and the woman shared a short, heated discussion, then a leather satchel was pressed to her chest and she was roughly pushed towards the young man on the ground. "Either you let her help you or you'll be responsible for her death", Remy stated, playing on the honor of the injured musketeer to speed things along. His ploy worked as d'Artagnan had no choice except compliance.

At least Amantine was very competent. She efficiently set three bones in his hand and splinted all of the broken ones. Afterwards, she rebound the wounds on his arm and back after cleaning them with alcohol. The whole process made d'Artagnan sweat, curse and in the end cry from the pain.

Amantine didn't comment, instead opted to stay quiet during the whole ordeal. Finally, she forced him to drink some water and eat a few mouthfulls of a disgusting stew. When she was done, she whispered something into his ear. At fist, d'Artagnan thought he'd misheard because of the constant agony, but as she repeated her "I'm sorry, I'm sorry", he understood with growing unease that something was seriously wrong.

* * *

 **A/N:** Dun dun duuuun. What do you think Amantine is apologizing for?

I know this chapter was kinda dark, but did you like it?


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N** : Sorry again for the late update - please don't kill me. Two of my papers for college are due this week, so please be patient.

And as alwas, reviews are like oxygen!

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

The orchestra music grated on his spirit. He needed a drink or to jab out his eardrums. So many bad memories. How had he let his friends talk him into this? Athos was ready turn around and abandon their elaborate plan – and they weren't even inside yet! It was Sylvie's easy laugh that kept him from bolting like a ten-year-old. "You look like someone rained on your parade, Athos. Is my company so much of a burden to you?" Looking up into her amused face, he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and tried to relax.

"No, of course not", he said and tried for a smile, which lasted precisely three seconds until the servant announced their entrance to the full ballroom. "His esteemed Arthur de la Fère, the finest wine merchant south of Paris, and his wife, Sylvie."

"Wine merchants?", Athos repeated under his breath, just knowing which of his friends had come up with that not-so-fantastic disguise. Aramis seemed unbothered by Athos death glare, though, and ignored him in order to compliment Sylvie on her bottlegreen dress istead. "You look radiant, my dear."

"Thank you." Her wide skirts rustled as she bobbed a lopsided curtsy. Athos could hear a few of the other guests whisper about her imperfect behavior, but he found it and the self-ironic smile that went with it highly endearing. Before he could get caught staring at his wife for the evening, he rather let his attention wander from the nobles to the staff. Among the colorful lords and ladies, comtes and comtessas, merchants and rich pricks, he noticed black clad waiters and more guards than expected. Was Remy de Balzac suspicious of them or just careful?  
Every fibre of his being itched to go looking for their missing Gascon, but he knew that now wasn't the time, so he sought distraction by cornering his cheeky comrade.

"Wine merchants, Aramis?", he growled as soon as they reached their group at the bottom of the stairs, but to his surprise it was Constance's dry voice that answered.

"At least you'll be very knowledgable if somebody will ask. I'm supposed to be a freighter captain's wife, but I don't know anything about sailing and the like!", she hissed, her distress evident.

"Just pretend that you are a gold digger and only married him for the money", Aramis adviced with a smart grin, then quickly disappeared into the throng of bodies before the redhead could vent her anger at the outrageous suggestion. Athos only listened half-heartedly to the conversation, his keen eyes following the guards around the room. As far as he could discern, they were indeed well trained, hence there would be no slipping past them without providing some incentive.

"Athos?"

"Yes?" Again, Sylvie impeded his plotting. Immersed in his observations, the musketeer hadn't noticed that Porthos and Constance had left for the ostantatious buffet at the end of the hall and Aramis... well, wherever he was, he was probably worming his way into an innocent lady's heart.

"Athos." Sylvie was looking at him with barely contained amusement and a hint of expectation. "Did you hear me?" Oh yes, he'd heard alright. Grimacing, Athos took her hands into his own and shook his head. "I don't dance", he said tersely, regretting his harsh words as he watched the smile slowly die on her lips.

"Childhood trauma", he admitted by way of an apology, hoping against all reason that she'd let the topic drop, which of course she didn't. He also hadn't expected her to simply grab his arm and pull him into the rows of eager dancers. Too late to escape, Athos submitted to his dreadful fate and bowed to Sylvie as the orchestra started to play again. Her touch on his hand was like a feather as they completed their tour de main.

"See, that's not too bad, is it?", she chided gently while they turned. No, it really wasn't and Athos was telling himself that his position on the ballroom floor provided a better view of his surroundings while he was in fact enjoying the dance, the tediousness of his lessons at a tender age all but forgotten. They danced through the next changes of music, Athos being increasingly pleased by his ability to remember and gracefully execute all the steps. Sylvie had turned out to be a remarkable partner and a few people even clapped as they ended their performance in a spectacular bow, Athos dipping Sylvie so low her unbound hair brushed the ground.

"That was...", Sylvie said breathlessly and with shining eyes, "that was incredible."

"Glad to be of service, madam", Athos replied, dipping his hat at her. He'd insisted on keeping the hat as the lady Lemaigre had arranged their clothing to fit their alibies and was now glad for its cover as he again surveyed the crowd and the multiple exits that lead further into the building. The ghoul that had made its home inside his heart as they'd lost d'Artagnan four nights ago snidely mentioned that he'd been very happy right now while his brother probably suffered within the same walls, prompting Athos to double his efforts in an attempt not to drown in this flare of guilt.

Finally, the huge double-doors opposite the entrance opened and their host entered. Even from the distance, Athos could identify a deep and poorly conceiled cut on the man's face, which filled him with a grim sense of pride at his protege. Who else could have injured the man after he'd gotten away clean at their first meeting?

"Welcome, friends, to this modest gathering at my home. It is my pleasure to inform you of my prevailing good fortune regarding my enterprises in Spain. Please enjoy the festivities, eat, drink, dance. We have ordered the..."

Athos frowned nearly unnoticeably as one of the guards stepped closer to the podium of his master to whisper something into his ear. Apparently, it wasn't good news as the comte's eyes narrowed to slits and his hands formed fists at his side. His sleazy expression stayed friendly, though. "It seems we have a problem with the peacock flambé!", he stated with an overly horrified expression, eliciting a few chuckles here and there. "Let me quickly tend to my mutinous poultry, ladies and gentlemen. I shall be right back to entertain you with my presence."

The chatter started up as soon as de Balzac had left the room. Athos heard a remark to his left of a gentleman stating how unusual this behavior was for their host, causing the musketeer to seek out Porthos in haste. Once he had reached them, he found his worries reflected in the muscular man's countenance. "I don't like this."

"For some reason, he's deviating from his normal path", Athos agreed.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?", Porthos asked, earning himself a short nod.

"d'Artagnan."

"How do you know?", Constance asked, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the lacy seam of her deep blue dress.

"Believe me, we know." Porthos was as unhappy with the unfolding of the events as Athos was, but there was a silver lining on the horizon. For once, Athos could see it. "We need to speed things up. That way, we'll get to him sooner. That's something."

Without another word, Athos made his way over to where Aramis was arguing with a fat man in yellow stockings. As he and Sylvie got closer, they could hear Aramis patiently explain politics to the fuming noble. Aramis, it seemed, had noticed their approach, because he swung around to meet them. "Arthur, please. What is the definition of diplomacy?"

"The ability to tell a snotty customer to travel straight to hell in such a way that they look forward to the trip?" Athos suggested evenly, remembering his status as a wine merchant and not a soldier.

He noticed the blank look on the obese man's face and the low giggle of his lovely female companion, concluding that the argument must have been originally about the lady and that the man was definitely outmatched. Aramis had obiously picked up on the underlying tension of his friend, because he actually apologized to the man and left without looking at the woman again.

"Finally found your better?", Athos asked with a look back at the odd couple. Aramis smirked at the two of them. "Hardly. I simply refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed person." They strode a few more paces away, then Aramis stopped his friends and, lowering his voice, inquired what had them all riled up.

"d'Artagnan. Athos and Porthos are pretty sure that the comte's disappearance has something to do with him", Sylvie summed up their predicament. Aramis thought for a moment, considering what Athos would have done in reaction. When he saw Porthos and Constance heading for the buffet again, he nodded in understanding. "Switching up the timetable, I see."

"What are you doing!", Constance's cry pierced the air. She was holding a part of her ripped sleeve and was backing up from a onstensibly very drunk Porthos. Immediately, Sylvie started out to recue her, only to be held back by Athos, who wore a fine smile. "Leave them be."

Slap! Constance had left a mark on the musketeer's face, prompting him to shove her into the towering pyramid of filled glasses, which in turn sent a cascade of champaign down on the bystanders. By that time, they held the attention of the whole room. "You animal! My dress is ruined! And my reputation! How could you? Look at them!" Pointing dramatically at the assembled crowd, Constance let out another shrill howl and picked up a cream-oozing muffin to throw at her opponent, who ducked in reflex.

"Hey!" Another lady's dress was blemished and her protector felt obliged to join the fray. Athos, still keeping an eye on the surroundings while his companions were caught up in the show, tapped his brother on the shoulder. "Aramis, time to go."

"But Constance's performance is just getting started. She's riveting when..."

"Come on, you fool. Follow me. We've got work to do."

"How could I resist an invation like that?" With one of this trademark grins, Aramis retreated towards the door behind them, whose guard was on his way to break up the all-out food fight and the clamouring lords and ladies.

Once they had slipped through the doors and had entered the private part of the mansion, their mood soon turned sombre. Their boots echoed on the marble floors, shadows dancing on the walls as they traversed through empty hallway after empty hallway.

"This is taking too long. If it really was d'Artagnan who prompted de Balzac to leave, he will need our assistance sooner rather than later", Athos said, one hand on his sword, "We need to split up."

"That is a bad plan", Sylvie gave back right away, concern itched into her face.

"Well, what did you expect?", Aramis tried to settle her with a carefree smile, "We're musketeers!" At the next corner, he turned right while Athos and Sylvie chose the left hallway. Athos determinedly lead them towards the outer parts of the building, knowing that would be where d'Artagnan would head if he was able to. His strategy was soon rewarded when they heard steps in front of them and cursing.

"The comte", Sylvie whispered when she reckognized the voice. Athos didn't spare her a glance, though, completely focused on listening to the sounds around the corner. Two sets of feet, he judged, one of them limping heavily. As he heard the clinking of metal, he didn't wait any longer and risked a glance.

First he saw de Balzac, easy to spot in his red finery. He was carrying a pistol in one hand and behind him, bound, beaten, bloody but gloriously alive – d'Artagnan.


	8. Chapter 8

**Warning** : Graphic content and torture.

 **A/N:** It's really getting dark in this chapter, so be prepared.

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

It was a frightening realization that he was trapped and overpowered. That musket in de Balzac's hands was truly a gamechanger, causing his escape and rescue plans to vanish into thin air like a mirage in the desert. Athos felt his shoulders go rigid as the wheels in his mind turned the problem over and over, coming up with endless conclusions that all involved d'Artagnan's gruesome death. Mercilessly, the ghoul in his heart laughed.

"Sylvie, find Aramis and bring him here."

"Why?", she whispered, not having seen what he had. "What are you going to do? What is..."

"Sylvie. Do it now. Tell him the comte has a gun on d'Artagnan. I can't... I can't leave!" Ah, there it was. Realization washing over her face like cold rain, dousing her high hopes. They hadn't been able to smuggle in guns themselves and she was clever enough to know what bringing a sword to a gunfight meant, yet her intuition rightly told her that trying to stop Athos would be like stopping the lightning from striking the church. The single question now occupying her worried mind being whether Athos was the lightning or the church.

"Don't you die on me, Athos", she said quietly, but only received silence as an answer, which did little to reassure her. Nevertheless, Sylvie whirled around, stepped out of her shoes in the same motion and sprinted noiselessly down the corridor. Athos watched her go for only a heartbeat, then he calmed his mind and stepped out into the hallway, having rightly estimated that the impostor and his prisoner were less that five feet away.

Remy froze, his mouth forming a perfect O in suprise. In contrast, d'Artagnan's hanging head snapped up forcefully, shock registering on his pale features before a strange mixture of emotion and a devilish grin took hold. d'Artagnan then proceeded to use the momentum that his being dragged by the chains around his hands provided to smash into his captor in a reckless try to unbalance him and turn the tables.

Unfortunately, de Balzac recovered just in time to step sideways and left his leg extended so that the boy tripped and fell to the floor in a pained heap, his arms extended skywards by the comte's unyielding grip on the irons. As his back hit the marble and the chain bit into his wrecked hand only a split second later, d'Artagnan groaned, his voice too hoarse to even scream. His expressive dark orbs met his mentor's gaze, conveying a desperation that pierced a hole right through the older man's soul. How could he have let things come to this? All that pain... Athos stumbled back as if being beaten himself.  
He couldn't intervene or else he'd seriously endanger d'Artagnan's life, so he self-loathingly spread his hands in a placating manner.

This allowed de Balzac to carelessly press his foot onto d'Artagnan's stomach, thereby restricting the Gascon's air supply as much as he wanted to by putting pressure on his lungs and diaphragm. He also pointed his musket at Athos, which the swordsman accepted without even blinking.

"Now, who are you, my friend?", the villainous noble wanted to know. When Athos shrugged and didn't bother to answer verbally, de Balzac gradually shifted his weight onto the foot on the Gascon's chest. The resulting moans and gasps quickly shattered Athos' calm demeanor. "Stop", he commanded through clenched teeth, knowing he'd just failed the first test.

de Balzac raised one of his thick black brows, his round eyes lighting up as he smiled. "So you do know the brat. Interesting. Yes, very interesting indeed. You know, our little d'Artagnan, he's quite something. Not one, but two escape attempts! Even made it as far as the front door the second time, isn't that astounding?"

That bit of information was both a relief because it reassured Athos that his brother had been well enough to move and at the same time it was sweet torture to know that they had missed each other by a mere hour. "Anyways, I'm afraid the little shit is more effort than he's worth. So, bye-bye d'Artagnan. I was just about to take him out back. Perhaps you'd like to watch, monsieur?"

"Watch... his execution?" The fury that boiled through his veins was barely hidden behind the mask any more, the first drips of it slipping past and transforming his usually even voice into smoldering fire. "No. And you won't kill him either."

"Oh yeah?", the comte rebutted, obviously having fun. His left hand pulled the chains a bit higher, forcing d'Artagnan to lift his shoulders up and bear the increased strain on his lower back. The boy was panting, his eyes shut against the agony and his pulse beating rapidly. Athos could see how close his brother was to loosing it, but was unable to do anything about the situation at that moment, the gun being a effective deterrent. With every laboured breath of his little brother, Athos reminded himself that him getting shot wouldn't help the boy. Instead, he'd have to rely on his wits for now.

"You still need him to control me. Without him as your bargaining chip you'd be a rotting corpse already", Athos threatened, deliberately letting his deadly anger leak through the cracks in his armor. de Balzac swallowed forcefully, then grinned without any humor. "Perhaps I'll just kill him in order to soothe my irritation and take my chances with you." Athos shrugged non-comittally, only the feral gleam in his eyes betraying his tension.

"Sure, but after having no luck with the boy, do you really think you can control a real musketeer? And be that is it may, I have a far better offer."

"Do you, now? What ever would that be?" The comte actually seemed a bit less sure of himself, grabbing the weapon in his hand too tightly. Athos knew that cornered animals would lash out. His answer therefore was simple, letting the opponent believe he had the upper hand.

"I have the information you seek." Seeing the greed enter de Balzac's eyes, Athos played his cards. "And I'll tell you if you let d'Artagnan go. As you said, the boy is of no further use to you." After a moment of silence and de Balzac pulling his feet off d'Artagnan's body, he laughed at Athos, his supercilious aura encompassing him again like a mantle.

"No. No, you're both coming with me. Get rid of the weapon", the evil comte said and hauled d'Artagnan's semi-conscious frame closer to himself. Athos noted how much his brother's legs were shaking and decided to follow along, even if it was only to lighten the boy's pain for a moment. He'd never expected de Balzac to let d'Artagnan leave in the first place, but at least they weren't discussing killing any more and they'd not be separated again. Athos didn't know whether he'd be able to bear being apart from his little brother any time soon.

"Alright." Athos dropped the sword to the ground, letting his natural authority fall with it. With hunched shoulders and what he hoped was a cowed expression, he adressed his captor. "But let me carry d'Artagnan. He won't be able to walk wherever we're going."

To his wonder, de Balzac actually allowed the action. As they were being herded towards the cellar, Athos repeatedly tried to get through to the flagging Gascon at his side. Calling his name didn't prompt any reaction, though, and Athos began to wonder if the bruises and the bandaged hand were only the tip of the iceberg. He'd also noticed the unnatural heat the boy was emitting, adding fever to the list of injuries to tend to when all this was over. Right now, Athos would gladly give his own hand just to see the eyes of his brother and be forgiven.

It wasn't to be, however. Instead, d'Artagnan was roughly pulled from Athos's stabilizing shoulder and casually trown to the stone floor in what seemed to be a rather roomy prison cell. Instinctively, Athos tried to lunge after the falling form and cushion his landing, but was forced to back off as he was fixated by de Balzac's unnerving stare and the mouth of the gun.

"Kneel", the comte ordered. Without any chance to overthrow the man, Athos slowly complied, only then noticing the shackles at his feet. The were about as short as d'Artagnan's and threaded through a ring in the floor and although he'd known what the next command would be, everything in him rebelled at the thought of putting them on voluntarily. But as the gun swung round towards the Gascon, Athos swallowed his pride and clicked the manacles shut around his wrists.

Disgusted at his own helplessness to protect the boy yet again, Athos watched silently as de Balzac pulled d'Artagnan up so he was standing with his back towards his mentor and looped the chain between his victim's hands through a hook that was protruding from the wall. From that position, Athos had an undisturbed view of the cuts, the blooming black bruises and the nasty remains of the bandages on his brother's back as well as the fact that he could count the boy's ribs. He hadn't even been fed properly, Athos realized, hatred bubbling up from inside him.

This feeling intensified by a thousandfold when he saw what de Balzac had pulled out of a wooden box at the end of the room. Straining his muscles and cursing the fact that he'd submitted to anything the madman had said, Athos tested his restraints with growing trepidation. "Don't do that. You don't need to do that, I already promised I would tell you!" At that point the musketeer didn't even care whether he he sounded weak, only that de Balzac was far too close to his defenseless brother – and he was carrying a whip. Remy turned around, patting his new toy lovingly. "Oh, I know, my friend. But after I'm finished, I will be sure that you'll answer truthfully in order to avoid a second round."

Athos growled wordlessly, his body promising retribution even as the comte expertly gathered force with a wide swing and let the tail end crash down on d'Artagnan's vulnerable flesh. The sound would forever be etched into Athos' mind, the picture of d'Artagnan's tortured body jerking from the impact haunting his darkest nightmares. The boy had been shocked awake by the pain, weakly calling out. "Athos. Help. Please, help."

And Athos fought, fought harder than ever before to get free, uncaring whether he shredded his skin and bone in the process, but the shackles held him fast and on his knees. As the whip found its mark for the second and third time and his little brother screamed through his parched throat, Athos could feel the ghoul gleefully eating the remains of his broken heart.

Relentless, the vile comte pulled his arm back again. He was just about to let another blow rain down on the boy when the distinctive click of a musket's trigger being cocked pierced the air, causing all three of them to look at the door in surprise. Lit by the torches behind him, Aramis pointed his weapon at the landlord with unerring accuracy. His voice was stone-cold as he addressed the villain. "Move. I dare you. Give me an excuse."

"Aramis." d'Artagnan's whisper fractured the silence a long moment later and caused Athos to settle slightly, although the older musketeer didn't like the faraway quality of his protégé's voice. His anxious gaze met Aramis' and then Sylvie's. The woman had entered after Aramis and was now beckoning to be handed the gun. "Go, take care of him."

With an apologetic glance at the still chained Athos, Aramis hurried over to d'Artagnan's still form after relinquishing his hold on the stolen gun. He assessed the damage done with a dark expression, then lifted the boy's arms to pull him loose, cursing when d'Artagnan suddenly went slack and crumpled bonelessly to the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"d'Artagnan!", Athos screamed, unable to reach his brothers while Aramis barely managed to catch their youngest. Aramis immediately bent over the Gascon, uncaring of the still bleeding cut on his own temple which he'd obtained when they'd encountered a few guards upstairs. The musketeer searched for a pulse and seemed only marginally reassured as he found it racing and shallow. His expression betrayed his worry as he tapped the boy's cheek none too gently without any result. "He's not waking up."

"What's wrong with him?", Sylvie asked in a concerned manner and looked the boy over. She couldn't see any massive wounds or anything that would suggest why he had collapsed, although he was deathly pale and each shuddering, rapid breath shook his complete frame like a leaf and...

"Watch out!"

Athos' harsh command caused her to divert her attention back to the baddie, a less than handsome, ruddy, surly creature. His fat baby hands were balled to fists and he puffed like a walruss when she stopped his ungraceful inching towards the door. "As Aramis said. Don't give me any ideas", she threatened, for once not smiling in the least. He was the reason her boyfriend was chained on the floor and although Sylvie wouldn't mind that under different circumstances, the things that had been done to d'Artagnan were inexcusable. And making Athos watch... now, that was just cruel.

As Sylvie watched Aramis do his job and fuss over the thrashing d'Artagnan in an effort to wake him, she swallowed. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

d'Artagnan roused to the sound of footsteps and voices. Both were quite loud and featured a tone of underlying urgency which made his tender head hurt. Louder and louder the voices screamed at him, but all he could hear was the howling of the wind and the gushing rain on his vulnerable skin was all he could feel. Shivering, he tried to curl in on himself, but something hindered and stopped him. Cold. He couldn't move, couldn't run, couldn't flee the flood descending on him.

He gasped for air, desperate, drowning. The footsteps were close now, each step cracking like lightning and rolling like thunder. d'Artagnan wondered whether he'd be trampled when they passed, it sounded like an army. Or the marching band of hell, drenched in broken stormclouds.

Opening his eyes a slit, d'Artagnan could almost see them. The mud-soaked boots, their skeleton bodies and the fire glinting behind them. Fire and rain and wind, hollering, hollering. And the music, why wouldn't anybody stop the music? He pressed his hands to his ears, but it was of no use, the army marched on.

* * *

He had to fight down his panic as he saw his brother shiver on the ground, unresponsive to his touch. If anything, gripping his arm had made the trembling worse. As soon as d'Artagnan curled in on himself, Aramis tried to stop him, afraid he'd to further damage to his obviously bruised ribs but even mostly unconscious, the ailing musketeer was strong and slipped from his hold, only to gasp in agony when his body protested at the movement.

"d'Artagnan, stop, wake up...", Aramis called out urgently but to no avail. Incensed, the sharpshooter turned his glare to the comte, who had the audacity to smile at them. With three steps, Aramis was at his side and somehow, he had aquired the weapon from Sylvie.

"What. Did. You. Do. To. Him?" Each word was a silent promise of an ugly death. Aramis smirked slightly as he saw understanding light up the comte's face and his bottom lip began to quiver. "I didn't do anything, I swear!"

"This isn't normal", Aramis stated as calmly as a panther before the jump on his prey, "So you better tell me what you did to him, because if he dies or endures any unnecessary pain, I will make you feel it."

"I, you... I mean... the brat wasn't talking and we had to know! We had to!" de Balzac's list of excuses was growing while the man himself seemed to shrink in on himself. Normally, Aramis would have enjoyed seeing the evil comte sqirm, but a glance at the twisting tortured body on the floor told him he needed to press for time if they wanted to get their friend back alive.

"Don't make me repeat myself." His voice was low as the gun barrel beneath the man's chin should be motivation enough. Sure enough, the bastard opened his mouth quickly, but was cut off by a piercing cry as d'Artagnan shot upright like a scalded cat.

* * *

The army had stopped in front of him, surrounding him, their fleshless faces leering down at his prone body. Empty black eye sockets bore into him while iron boots stamped down on him. His back - one, twice, three times. Pain. His hand. No! Not his hand! But even as he shot upright, d'Artagnan felt the bones in his hand shatter and cried out in renewed agony. The dead had come to get him, to take him away and to crush his body and soul and he was alone to face the raging storm.

"Don't make me repeat myself", ordered a voice right next to him that reminded him of Aramis, cutting through some of the skeletal warriors and making them vanish into the background of flickering shadows at the edges of his vision. Flesh melted onto some of the remaining faces, grotesque yet far too lifelike for d'Artagnan's mind to grasp.

He could discern Sylvie, although some of the woman's teeth were visible through rotting tendons on her cheeks, then there was Aramis with blood seeping down his temple and an open ribcage through which his unbeating heart might have been glimpsed if not for the tatters of his clothes. And, finally, for some reason on the floor, the ghost of Athos, his eyes blacked out and haunting while he rattled his manacles like the ghost of King Hamlet and roared at d'Artagnan. "Don't make me repeat myself! d'Artagnan! Why did you do this to us? Why? You killed us, why?"

For a moment, d'Artagnan closed his eyes to block out the vision and desperately scooted backwards. His hand was cradled at his chest, throbbing to the pulse of his rapid heartbeat, thundering against the wind and burning relentlessly like the guilt in his heart. Sleeping had brought nightmares, but now that he was awake, he still couldn't escape the horrors.

* * *

Athos thought things couldn't get much worse, but as soon as he saw d'Artagnan retreating from them – scared of his own brothers, he considered himself corrected. The situation was obviously more dire than either of them had realized upon entrance into this dungeon, yet Athos failed to see what had happened. d'Artagnan had been coherent during his attack on de Balzac and even during their conversation in the hallway, Athos had been sure he'd seen the telltale signs of the boy's attentive, ready for anything attitude. Now, though, he witnessed nothing but undiluted terror.

"Why?", he asked himself, too high-strung even to keep his thoughts silent. At his words, d'Artagnan flinched, which prompted Athos to look more closely at the boy. Certainly his question wasn't a reason to flee, and neither he nor Aramis had approached the trembling form in the corner of the room due to his obvious negative reaction to their presence. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan's eyes darted about the room in a panicked manner, following... something.

"His eyes. Aramis, look at his eyes", Athos said sharply when his mind finally put two and two together. How could they have been so slow?

"Dilated pupils, nearly no iris visible. Sluggish reaction to light. No reaction at all to visible incentive", Aramis listed, kneeling down a few paces in front of the Gascon, who muttered something about skelettons and ghosts and fire and storms. Aramis' curse echoed through the room, but Athos had focused on de Balzac's slug-like grin. The man knew exactly what was going on, but he was being unhelpful on purpose and Athos had the feeling he'd just as often lead them onto the wrong path than give up real information. They didn't have time for games.

"Aramis, can you do something about his... state of mind?", Athos inquired, barely keeping his voice civil. His anxiousness skyrocketed when Aramis again shook his head. "As long as I don't know what they gave him, the answer is no. I'm sorry."

Meanwhile, Sylvie's gaze had strayed to the door again, keeping a lookout for guards. By now, Porthos' and Constance's distraction would have concluded and soon, the house would be swarming with enemies that were searching for their master. Knowing their predicament quite well, Athos paced and tried as hard as he could not to lash out in frustration at his comrade or at Sylvie. This was not their fault, it was his own for not noticing d'Artagnan's condition sooner when there was still time to ask him about it.

"We need to get through to him somehow. Ideas?"

"Adrenaline, maybe. But it won't work for long", Aramis cautiously suggested, grimacing when Athos nodded resolutely and passed him by on his way to the Gascon. Athos tried to ignore the horrified expression on the boy's face, kept his own emotions in check and, with an inward curse at himself, slapped d'Artagnan hard.

* * *

The pain was instant, sudden as the crack of silence following the shrieking winds and the evil laughter of the skeleton warriors. d'Artagnan blinked owlishly in an effort to reconcile the signals his brain was sending him with the things he felt and saw. The quicksand that, in the aftermath of the flood, had been creeping up his chest had vanished, as had the icy hands tearing at him. In their stead, d'Artagnan felt the hot sting of a hand-imprint on his jaw. Despite the pain, his heart supplied a sense of safety. Warmth. Trust.

The face hovering above him, which slowly surfaced through the fog creeping in, was that of a friend. "Athos?", d'Artagnan croaked, confused and still shivering although warm hands held him at the shoulders. Hands that were made of living, welcoming flesh, not rotten and repellent. "Are you... alive?" He just had to know. Hope erupted in his chest, but it was a treacherous thing, not to be believed lightly.

"d'Artagnan", Athos replied, relief coloring his tone while his answer remained all business, "I am fine, but we need to know who drugged you and with what substance. Do you remember?"

"Drugs...", d'Artagnan repeated listlessly. He didn't feel drugged, he didn't feel anything really. Depleted. Already the white fog was obscuring his eyesight once more, or was it smoke? Had the fire returned already? The music for sure had never stopped and he could still smell the stench of rott, dirt and musk lingering in the air. His mind screamed at him to run, but d'Artagnan refused to show fear while Athos was watching him intently.

"Drugged stew", he rasped and felt pride well up as Athos curtly nodded at him.

"Who? Was is de Balzac?"

"No", d'Artagnan said, gritting his teeth to keep focused on the conversation that was slipping through his grasp like a puff of mist. His own shackled hands reached out to his mentor in order to anchor him as long as he could brazen the waves. "Amantine. There is blood on her door..." So much blood. Blood everywhere. On the floor, on his skin, on Athos' clothes. It was gushing from wounds he hadn't seen before. Athos was dying!

"NO!" With more energy d'Artagnan had known he possessed, he levered himself up and lunged, putting pressure on the long cut on Athos' neck. Sqeezing down, trying despite all odds to save a life... only to have his hands roughly knocked away. He was too weak to resist, causing the blood that poured forth and had turned his hands red to now stream down his brother's chest. Freely. Unstoppable. Deathly. Condemning.

"Please, I'm trying to help!", d'Artagnan called out, his chains clanking loudly as his hands trembled. The skeletons at his sides laughed, but Athos' voice was grave. "We're going to help you, d'Artagnan. Just hold on, alright? Hold on."

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry guys for the long wait. I've been ill this past week, but now it's finally back to writing! I hope some of you are still with me, and if you are, it would be fantastic if you could leave a sign of life in the comment section below! Just so I know you're still there and what you think about this rather unusual chapter ;)

I know this chapter didn't have much of a plot, I promise there is going to be more action soon. And congratulations to Debbie for figuring out what Amantine did to d'Artagnan!


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 **

It started with a bang. And footsteps. Athos heard them stomping down the stairs and did his best to bite back a string of curses that would make a sailor proud and a comte blush – after all, there were ladies present. Nonetheless, he stopped trying to talk to a despondent, tormented d'Artagnan in favour of glancing outside. Yes, they would be having company soon, about a dozen men. None of them looked friendly. Time to go then. Not wasting another second, he unceremoniously knocked de Balzac unconscious. He knew that the three of them would not be able to transport both the comte and their brother and the choice between the men wasn't even close.

"Aramis." The command was enough, they knew what to do. Without further ado, Athos pulled up d'Artagnan and put his arm around his shoulders while the other musketeer carried himself and the pistol out into the corridor. The torches on the walls were burning low, casting the group into shadows as they made their escape.

Meanwhile, the guards had spread out, allowing them a small chance to slip by unnoticed. Athos could see it, the moment the foremost guard turned his head left and the other one went back to stare at his boots. Three steps and they'd be close enough. Determined, he stepped closer to inform Aramis of his strategy, but stopped short when he discovered something else. A female voice behind a cell door. And there was blood on her door.

"So much blood", Athos repeated under his breath. Sylvie, disconcerted by his ominous words, turned around and inquired what he was talking about. Yet it was Aramis who answered. "d'Artagnan hinted that his poisoner was a woman behind a bloody door. No pun intended."

"Then we better get in there", Sylvie said, understanding lighting up her face. She smiled when only a breath later Athos had picked the lock on the door and opened it to reveal indeed a woman. Messy blond hair, a bruise and a scowl on her face. Why was she gazing at them with suspicion instead of gratitude? Athos filed the question away for later, the sagging body next to him the more pressing concern.

"What did you give him?", he asked brusquely. The woman stepped back further into the cell with her hands raised as if to protect herself. "Nothing that would kill him. Remy made me. I swear!"

This admission of guilt prompted Aramis to enter with three long strides and lean in really close, his voice dangerously low. Although Athos could see that his friend felt pity for the woman, he did not let it show openly. Instead, he grasped her arm tight enough for it to hurt.

"Tell me exactly what you gave him that made him like this."

"Fly amantia. Blue halo. Jimson Weed."

"Madre de Dios. How could you!", Aramis cursed and shook her violently. "All three of them? How much?"

She swallowed, her scowl easing into what Athos would have called a pout if not for the circumstances. "He isn't dead, is he? I made sure it wasn't close to a lethal dose. However..."

"What? What else is there?", Aramis asked, obviously caught in a place between horror and fury. His hands were balled into fists, his regular sniper breathing uneven as the medic in him was probably screaming.

"Remy wanted the boy to be riding the high without a pause, because it made him easier to handle. I complied. He's been given those mushrooms non-stop for more than three days with less than an hour of withdrawal in-between. I brought the last dose only an hour and a half ago."

That's around the time d'Artagnan had made his escape, Athos realized. His fearless little brother had already known the clock was ticking when he'd started his quest. Still, he'd not given up and nearly gotten away, too. It also explained why d'Artagnan had fallen silent on the way back to the dungeon. The drugs must have hit his bloodstream by then. The hate blooming in his chest mixed with a growing apprehension for what d'Artagnan had endured, endured because he had been left by the men sworn to protect him. Regardless, Athos coolly held back Aramis who couldn't rein in his feelings any longer.

"I know brother, I know", he muttered quietly and sought the Spaniard's eyes. As soon as he saw control ease back in, he let go, his mind already attacking the problem of their way out with the new information. To his suprise, Sylvie took over and placed her slender hand on the medic's arm. "Aramis, please tell me what those drugs are. I've never heard of them before."

The musketeer huffed and raked a hand through his dishevelled hair. He was looking at d'Artagnan as he replied. "Blue Halos are sometimes called magic mushrooms, because they make you loose your sense of time and cause vivid hallucinations, sometimes paranoia. But they're not the problem, the effects last only a few hours. It's the mix... The Jimson Weed will confuse you, lower your emotional barriers and induce a state where you can no longer tell what is real and what is not. Combine that with fly amantia, which also alters your perception and causes your darker emotions to rise and you're guaranteed a trip to hell and back."

Sylvie gasped, her hands over her mouth. "That's beyond anything... Why would they ever...?"

"Because Remy wanted something, only the boy had it hidden in his stubborn mind. So he broke his mind. Your friend over there forgot to mention that you can give the person under the influence some incentive while his journey begins. And Remy made the best of that. I could hear the young man cry out."

"Enough", Athos interrupted with a raw voice. He motioned for them to return to the corridor, stepped outside and was promptly acquainted with a sword. His reflexes saved him as he ducked and at the same time kicked out the guard's feet from under him. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs and Athos used a trick Porthos had shown him a few weeks ago to press down on the opponent's neck and thereby render him unconscious. In the short moments of turmoil, Amantine had vanished into the gloom. Not that any of them really cared, as long as she stayed away, they were glad to be rid of her. Grasping Aramis' hand, Athos stood up and again lifted his little brother off of the floor.

"They probably heard that", Aramis surmised with a small smirk in his friend's direction. Sure enough, they were soon embroiled in a battle with more than half a dozen guards. Thankfully, those men were not as well trained as the ones in the ambush, but Athos wasn't certain that it would have made a difference. Aramis and, honestly, he himself fought with a conviction he'd seldom seen before. As he felled a man with a single well-aimed strike, Athos understood that it was because he had something, someone to fight for. Someone to protect. Someone to rescue. Someone dear to him.

Soon, the hallway was filled with moaning guards that were no longer blocking their exit. They even made it to the stables without any further mishaps, where they met up with Constance and Porthos. Constance had tried to take d'Artagnan from Athos, but the musketeer both saw the strategic disadvantage that would bring about and refused to let go. Constance didn't argue. Instead, they wrapped the boy into Porthos' cloak, mounted their steeds and carefully made for the edge of the estate.

In so going, they might even have made it past the searching guards if not for d'Artagnan. The boy had stirred in the saddle in front of Athos for a while, yet his awakening was ill-timed. His sudden shout of "Buttercup! Jump!" alarmed the guards, which were now in pursuit while Athos tried to keep his charge seated. d'Artagnan fought him all the way.

"You can't ever do things the easy way, can you?", Athos murmured, surprised when d'Artagnan answered cheekily.

"I don't have an attitude problem. You have a problem with my attitude, and that's not my problem, dad!" The half-formed relieved grin on Athos' cheeks froze. As the wind and the rain splattered his face and the older musketeer bent low over the neck of his horse, he cursed the comte over and over as his brain analysed what was to come. If Amantine's words were true and d'Artagnan's visions were influenced by what he saw, felt, and smelled, the rain and the cold would take them down a dark one-way street indeed.

Sure enough, they hadn't even reached the nearby forest when d'Artagnan's hallucinations took him back to the past.

"I couldn't stop them", he said, then jerked violently in Athos' arms, "Father! No, father!" Athos gripped him tighter, urging his horse to gallop alongside Aramis.

"We're not going to make it back to Paris", the medic said before Athos could make the same statement. So the swordsman simply nodded and lead them left, away from their home but hopefully towards another safe haven. Within minutes, the mansion of the Lady Lemaigre materialized from the unpleasant weather and the darkness of the night. They were dripping wet, but the doorman didn't bat an eye at their bedraggled appearance. On the contrary, he helpfully offered to call the stable boy and wake the mistress.

His steps had not faded when Aramis already seized the opportunity and began to examine his patient, sitting him down in the middle of the foyer. Like a puppet with its strings cut, d'Artagnan let it happen, at least until the Spaniard tried to take a look at his mangled hand. Then, the boy's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Aramis?"

"The one and only", the musketeer replied with a pleased expression, only to have the wind taken out of his sails by d'Artagnan's confused "But you left me to die. Days ago. Weeks ago? You and Porthos and Athos left me! I had to survive all on my own!"

"So you're hogging all the glory?", Aramis teased, although it sounded hollow in the huge room. d'Artagnan's brows knitted, either in anger or hurt, Athos couldn't tell. He did allow Aramis to unwind the bandage around his swollen fingers, but his voice was full of venom when he replied. "This isn't about glory. This is about the truth!"

"Oh, so you're hogging all the truth now", Aramis shot back, coming to a stop as he noticed that d'Artagnan didn't seem to hear him and continued his rant. "You abandoned me. To them. One for all, my ass! I did try to honor the other one, though."

"The other one?", Athos prompted quietly as the Gascon's tirade trailed off and his eyes slowly glazed over in pain while Aramis prodded and poked. The thumb and forefinger didn't seem to be damaged except for being a black bruise, but the other three had obviously been crushed and splinted thereafter. Athos winced nearly unnoticeably as Aramis frowned and quickly reset another link, which caused d'Artagnan's back to arch in agony. Constance excused herself, her face ashen.

"The... the vow", d'Artagnan croaked. "One for all. Tried... tried to protect the mission. The lady and... and her secrets. I didn't know her secrets. But Remy wanted to know. Remy asked... asked all the time. Athos!" Now, finally, his brother looked at him and saw him, but his anguish cut deeper and was more painful than any knive wound Athos had ever received.

"Athos, I don't know what... what I told him. Remy. I don't remember. I'm so... so sorry that I failed." The panic in his protégé's demeanor caused Athos to kneel down next to Aramis in order to cup d'Artagnan's face in his own calloused hands, forcing the younger man to meet his gaze.

"Listen to me, boy. You did not fail us. The mission was a success and you survived, that's what matters."

Without a warning, d'Artagnan's posture transformed, a manic energy flowing into him, his fingers curling into themselves and into claws. "No, no, get off, the thorns, they'll strangle you, get'em off, get them off, no..." Nails dragged into Athos' skin as he was scratched by the boy's attempt to undo something Athos could not see.

As fast as his astonishment would allow, Athos caught d'Artagnan's writsts, careful not to touch the left hand. While they struggled, Aramis scooting back in a concerned manner, Sylvie returned with the doorman and the Lady. "There is a guest room that will have anything we need", Sylvie announced tiredly. The lady elaborated, but the words washed by Athos and fell on deaf ears.

Aramis helped carry d'Artagnan through the entrance hall and over to the bed. Putting him on it proved a challenge, though. The boy cursed, fought and cursed some more and in the end, Porthos and Athos had to hold him down for Aramis to finish with the hand. With d'Artagnan lying on his stomach, his friends could see the lash marks from the whipping and the dirty bandage below. Afrter washing him and exposing the hideous, infected cut on his lower back, Aramis turned to the brandy on the small table next to the bed for disinfection.

"This is going to hurt. Ready?" Neither of them replied, so Aramis proceeded. D'Artagnan's hoarse screams filled the air until, thankfully, he surrendered to oblivion and fell limp. Nonetheless, he kept moving restlessly beneath their hands.

"If he keeps curling in on himself, he will damage his ribs, not to mention his hand if he tries to use it. In fact, any movement will hinder the healing process of the wounds, especially the one on his back", Aramis summed up, his expression grim and his hands bloody. Porthos groaned. "We're ain't able to hold him down forever."

"I know that."

"So what do you wanna do?", Porthos asked warily. Athos and Aramis exchanged a meaningful glance, in accordance with each other even though they didn't like their own plan of action. Silence spread, then Athos answered tonelessly. "Tie him to the bed."


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys!** As the replies to reviews seem kinda wonky right now, I'll just answer here. Before I start, you should all know that you're beyond awesome! Also, the next chapter turned out a lot longer than anticipated. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. Please let me know what you think!

 **at Vestal46** : Thanks a lot for your reviews. I'm really glad you like my story.

 **at FierGascon** : Again a big thank you for your reviews. Angst in ch10 and creepy in chapter 9 is what I aimed for, so I'm happy that worked. And I hope I caught all the accountants wandering around in my story, thanks for the tipp. ;)

 **at Debbie** : I'm afraid I don't know any Dirty Harry movies, but I love your reviews. They continue to make my day each time you post one. And yes, the drugs will have some unpredicted side-effects on the road to recovery. Do you think I could read the story you mentioned? I haven't found it yet on fanfic.

 **at pallysdeeks** : Thank you for taking the time to review! I agree, being in a nightmare yet not - it's a perfect description. I hope you stay with the story, your anticipation prompts me to write faster.

 **at Awesome-Sauce-Eater** : No worries, only one reader figured it out. And yes, that's a question we'll be answering later in the story. Thanks for mentioning it, reminded me not to forget.

 **at Tidia** : Thank you so much for your continued support! It really means a lot. Read on to find out what tying him down does to D'Art. ;)

 **at GreenWaters2** : Thanks for the compliment! And yep, Athos and the others are not going to let this go easy.

 **at Maryg** : Thanks a lot for your reviews! Your compliments make me really happy. And D'Artagnan's reaction... well, you'll see. ;)

 **at Issai** : Heartbreaking is what I strive for, so thanks a lot! And yes, binding him might not have been the best of ideas. Find out what happens below.

 **at gamineduna** : Thank you for reviewing! I thought that the women were not represented often enough in fanfics, so I really wanted to include them. I'm glad you like what I did there.

 **at cynthia** : Thanks for the review! It's much appreciated, as are the compliments. ;)

 **at GoGirl212** : Yeah, I guess writing inspires me to write more. :D Thank you for your continued support, it makes me really happy. And including the ladies has been a lot of fun so far.

 **at Honey** : Thanks for the review! I'm glad you liked it. Remy is the first villain I love to hate, so I'm really glad you think he's a good bad guy.

 **at Helensg** : Thank you so much for your reviews! A headless horseman... now that's an idea. And your wish is my command: Athos whump is coming up in the next few chapters.

 **at Deana** : Yes, that head injury will play a role later on. And thanks a lot for all your reviews! They really make my day.

 **at Shadow DarkFlower** : Sorry for all the cliffies, but I really love them ;) Just for you, there isn't really one at the end of this chapter. And thanks to you too for taking your time to review!

 **at watlocked** : Thanks for the compliments, I really appreciate them. Especially the one about characterization, cause I really try to get that right, so thanks a lot!

Okay, here goes chapter 11. It's past 2am here, but I wanted to publish today. Please forgive any typos, I'll spellcheck again tomorrow.

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

d'Artagnan's senses returned to him one by one. First came smell, a heavy odour of sweat mingling with lighter sensations of a woman's perfume, dust mixing with fresh air and the distant earthy whiff of apples. Then hearing, a man's light breathing and the peaceful sound of birds outside contrasting his own laboured breath.

The realization that he wasn't alone sent a wave of adrenaline crashing through his exhausted body and his eyes snapped open to reveal a large well-furnished room. Still imposing on the comte's questionable hospitality, then. Expensive carpets littered the mahagony floor and the huge window had painted glas set in. Even the bed was extravagant and sported a baldachin. It was as different from his own rooms at the Garrisson as it could get and d'Artagnan felt a pang of regret at the notion that he'd probably never see them again.

As he tried to turn and look at the rest of the room, his sense of touch finally came back, informing him loudly that his wrists were shackled to the headboard and his legs wouldn't be moving sideways any time soon either, being tethered to the foot of the bed. Furthermore, even the little motion made his head spin with the all too familiar sense of vertigo that signaled being as high as a kite. d'Artagnan groaned inwardly, tried to kick his sluggish thoughts from a slow trot into at least a canter.

Why was he in this decidedly nicer room than his previous cell? He also felt new bandages on his hand and around his torso, which begged the question why they'd take care of him. As much as he picked his brain, he just couldn't remember although there was somethin nagging at him. His fever... he'd had a high fever. Perhaps they didn't want him to die just yet and brought him here to treat it.

Was that it? All he could remember were visions of living corpses coming to haunt him, interrupted by even more gruesome pictures of his brothers dying in front of him or coming to his rescue only to realize that he wasn't worth it. Porthos laughing at his helplessness to escape the manacles a second time. Aramis mocking his poor state of health. Athos turning away from him in disgust. Leaving him behind again and again until d'Artagnan couldn't take it any more. All in all, d'Artagnan judged, he'd been pretty out of it.

Squinting at his bonds now, a slow smirk graced his beaten features. This time, he'd make Porthos proud. Or at least he woudln't disappoint the gentle giant, because the bindings were sloppy at best and allowed far too much room to move to be effective, even with just one functional hand. The knots didn't prove a challenge either and were easily cast off. The ropes on his feet received the same treatment, although he first snuck a glance at the guard that was in the room with him. Dozing at a table. Idiot.

d'Artagnan did inhale sharply as he noticed the man looked exactly like Aramis. Damn those drugs. It had happened before, his father turning out to be Remy. Athos turning into Ouvrard, a mean sneer on his hateful countenance. This time, he wouldn't be fooled, d'Artagnan decided while he slowly and quietly got up, the scrapes on his bare feet touching the warm rug beneath him in another small discomfort he could ignore. The pain in his back rose steadily, as did the haziness of the world around him. Nonetheless, d'Artagnan did manage to focus his vision on the guard's belt, where a dagger beckoned. Just a few steps more, he urged himself forward, stumbling. Reflexively, he thrust his hands forward to catch himself on the edge of the table and bit his lip hard as his broken fingers found the edge of the wood.

He must have made a sound, because the guard was waking up. Cursing, d'Artagnan grabbed the dagger and the same moment his captor's sleepy eyes landed on him, he had the blade at the man's throat.

"Quiet!", he hissed, sensing the movement of the guard's neck even as he lifted the blade in a backwards arch and thus forced back the head that looked agonizingly like his brother. The same brown eyes that had watched him spar at the Garrisson a thousand times now seemed to scrutinize him with concern.

"Stop looking at me like that!" d'Artagnan's anger at the situation rose to the surface, his hand shaking and drawing a thin line of blood from the tanned skin of the not-Aramis. The moan that escaped the older man slid right beneath the boy's skin, prompting him to swallow guiltily and ease the knife back a fraction. This allowed the guard to speak, to call out his name with Aramis' voice. "d'Artagnan, please stop."

"Stop?", he replied, his pale face as taut as a bowstring, "Like you stopped when you beat me? Like you stopped Remy when he trampled my hand into pulp? Like you stopped when they came to hurt me over and over!" The last one was a shout, something the young musketeer regretted as soon as the words left his mouth. Because as satisfying as seeing the not-Aramis wince was, the chances were high that someone else had heard it.

"Get up!", he therefore ordered, hectic now. Thankfully, the man complied and offered no resistance at all when he was pushed towards the door. He even shifted and took most of d'Artagnan's weight by positioning the Gascon slightly behind him with his arm and the dagger around his shoulders. d'Artagnan did notice, but didn't comment, uncaring of his enemy's reasons. Instead, he demanded the keys to the prison, surprised when not-Aramis chuckled. "It's open."

The fact that it was true and the door opened silently nearly made him pause until he realized the men probably hadn't meant for him to ever escape from the bed. Their mistake. As he entered the hallway, candles in golden sockets provided a warm light that was reflected on the blade he still had poised above not-Aramis' vulnerable carotid artery. It also illuminated the two men that were running at him, causing d'Artagnan's pulse to skip a beat as his drugged vision seemingly recognized Athos and Porthos. Wrong. Don't be fooled again, he reminded his traitorous heart. Their leather boots slid to a halt when d'Artagnan called out. "Stay right there or I'll slit his throat!"

Could he? Would he really be able to kill this man in order to make his escape? Yes!, his mind supplied while the rest of him still wavered. I'm not going to back down. Not ever. I'll do it. Determination blazed through him, causing him to square his shoulders, put the dagger right back on not-Aramis' skin and level his steadfast glare at the men.

* * *

Athos wasn't proud of it, but as he spied the scene at the end of the corridor, he gaped like an owl, eyes wide with astonishment. For one heartbeat, his mind was overwhelmed with the contradicting income. One, d'Artagnan was up. Two, Aramis had left the room. Three, Aramis had not left the room by choice, which was proven by the steel at his neck. Four, d'Artagnan was the one holding the weapon and five, he was threatening to kill one of their own.

Caution asserted itself and Athos stopped his approach. His arm prophilactically shot out to steady Porthos next to him. "Put the weapon down, lad", he said, confused when d'Artagnan's face closed even further when he heard Athos speak. The boy was no doubt allowed his anger towards his fellow musketeers, but pulling a weapon on them was going too far.

After all this was over, they'd have a long conversation on the topic of appropriate responses. Oh, and Aramis' would get his for letting an invalid take him prisoner in this spectacular fashion. A glance at the seething Porthos promised Athos that he wasn't alone with his conflicting emotions, but as their inofficial leader, he chose the high road of reason. "d'Artagnan, think about this. What are you trying to achieve by hurting Aramis?" And us, he added silently while he traded a look with Aramis. Their medic was remarkably calm, if anything, he seemed frustrated by his inability to speak. Athos' attention quickly shifted back to d'Artagnan when the boy swayed dangerously, pulling the Spaniard with him. Another thin line of blood welled up.

"This is not Aramis! Stop lying... stop lying to me!" The open desperation was like a hard slap in the face. A wake-up call to Athos. Of course the boy would think he was still at de Balzac's. What else would bindings and drugs suggest? Having one of them always in the room obviously hadn't been enough prevention. Now, how could they convince d'Artagnan that he was not dreaming?

"Remember when we met up after you'd escaped Vadim? I asked 'So you are still alive?' Nobody but me, Aramis and Porthos ever heard that. You're wide awake, boy. It's me."

"Liar!" d'Artagnan's hands were shaking and Athos was afraid he'd hurt Aramis, although his friend seemed unconcerned. He could probably disarm the youth before anything happened, but not without injuring d'Artagnan in the process, which only left talking as a viable option.

"No, I'm not lying. After the fire, you asked me whether the ghost of my dead wife was trying to kill me. And I said..."

"No, she isn't dead, d'Artagnan. She survived." They both said it at the same time and a second later, the dagger clattered to the floor, discarded. d'Artagnan's posture fell as his reason to save his pride while facing his enemies evaporated. Instead, he continued to move back and forth slightly on his feet, so Athos bridged the distance between them and grabbed his shoulders. d'Artagnan looked at him with gratitude as he felt Athos' support and the swordsman felt a mountain crumble off his chest. Still, he didn't fail to notice the smallish sense of unease that crackled between them.

"Let's get you back to bed", Athos said evenly. He wasn't surprised when d'Artagnan protested that he was fine and Athos purposefully looked at Aramis, who was bending down to retrieve his weapon from the floor. "Strange definition of fine."

"Good point", d'Artagnan conceded and reluctantly stepped back. He tensed when Athos followed without letting go of his arm.

"Do you trust me?", Athos asked lightly.

"No", d'Artagnan replied, but there wasn't any malice behind it. Athos tried not to take it personally and blamed it on the drugs. Perhaps it had been meant as a joke anyways.

"Good. One of us needs to be the voice of reason here", he said, keeping his tone light while he eased his little brother back down on the bed. The boy's eyes skipped straight to the restrains that were scattered at both ends. "What's up with the kinky stuff?"

Porthos and Aramis, who'd followed behind, guffawed at the boy's crude wisecrack. Even Athos felt himself relax. It was good to have him back, battered though he was.

"We were concerned that your moving would hinder your recovery", Aramis stated diplomatically and proceeded to list d'Artagnan's injuries. "You have deep bruising on your ribs, bruises on your arms and legs, at least three broken bones in your hand, abraded wrists and ancles, a deep sword-cut on your back that was infected until yesterday. You were also running a fever and somebody must have choked you, because..."

"Err, no", d'Artagnan cut in, his right hand going to the bluish line around the front of his own neck. "That was me, actually."

"Why?", Athos asked, incredulous. He sat down next to his protégé on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the reassuring warmth of the boy.

"They put a collar on me and I needed to reach something that was out of my reach", d'Artagnan summed up lightly. At the expressions of fury from his companions, some of the remaining tension drained from his slim body and he smiled. "It's really not half as bad as it looks."

"That's good, 'cause it looks pretty darn bad", Porthos grumbled from his place on the chair at the table. Aramis grinned at the comment and rummaged through his pockets. As he pulled out a deep blue strip of cloth, Athos eyes bugged. "What is that?", he asked, sharper than he'd anticipated.

"It's a necklace. After d'Artagnan went all Mylady on us and got his neck injured, I thought I'd buy him the matching accessories."

"You can't be serious." d'Artagnan watched the necklace with a slightly open mouth and Athos had to admit that the boy's disbelief was amusing. He really should have known Aramis better than this.

"Oh, does that mean you don't like it? I even bought the one with this cute little brass sun that'll really flatter your complexion", Aramis whined and d'Artagnan obviously had to hide a grin. That disappeared soon, though, when Aramis didn't stop to advance and rolled out the necklace to fit it around the boy's neck.

"Don't you dare put this on me!", d'Artagnan protested, laughter in his voice. He swatted his hands at the marksman as if to shoo away a fly, which of course didn't deter anyone. Athos watched on, a tiny smile on his own features. As Aramis loomed over d'Artagnan, however, he could see the young man's muscles tighten in discomfort.

"Aramis", Athos said quietly and the Spaniard immediately drew back. "So I guess that's a no to jewelry from our sleeping beauty", he quipped. At the same time, the door opened and Constance and Sylvie came in, their arms full of food. Upon seeing d'Artagnan awake, they both took their time to welcome him back, unknowing of the drama that had unfolded in the corridor only minutes before.

"Sleeping beauty?", Sylvie repeated cheerfully.

"A title our young friend has earned after he slumbered for four days straight", Aramis stated. Sylvie laughed, then pointed at Athos. "If d'Artagnan is sleeping beauty, Athos can be the little mermaid."

They all laughed at Athos' outraged expression and his muttered "I'm not a princess."

"But you do deserve it after you jumped into in the raging river during a storm tide."

"Tumbled into it is more like...", Porthos grizzled, whereas d'Artagnan looked confused. He'd apparently missed something. It didn't help when Constance joined in. "You could start a club. Sylvie can be Cinderella, loosing her shoes in the mansion and all that."

"What else did I miss?", d'Artagnan asked, seemingly unsure whether he really wanted to know. Well, Aramis was happy to oblige and retold a somewhat embellished version of the story of their daring rescue, which had ended at the Lady's estate. "You slept the first day, then you shouted obscenities at us for the next and the third day, you were kinda... off."

"Off?" d'Artagnan's voice was laced with suspicion as he'd spied the grin on some of their faces.

"It was very endearing, I promise", Constance said. "You were talking quite a lot."

"Oh yes, and your language was wonderfully colorful", Aramis acceded, "Very rural."

"How so?"

"We could stand here and argue until the cows turn blue", Porthos said as an example, accompanied by a wide smile. d'Artagnan looked as if he could scarcely believe it. "What."

"Yes, it's as easy as falling off a piece of cake", Aramis said.

"I don't-"

"I can read you like the back of my book." Porthos again.

"Or I'm as blind as a stone roof", Aramis added.

"Stop!"

"You know, you can beat a dead horse to water but you can't make him drink."

"I hate you." Although he was loathe to break up the light banter, Athos could see how tiring the conversation was for their youngest, and there were still some things the boy needed to know.

"d'Artagnan", he therefore started, "before you go back to sleep, you need to eat something. And there is something else..."

"You drugged me. I know. I just can't figure out why", d'Artagnan interrupted and for once, Athos was glad of it. It was not a lie, but a very uncomfortable truth.

"Your body wasn't strong enough to deal with both the fever and the withdrawal, so we left you with two of the three drugs you received during your... stay at the comte's mansion", Aramis explained. d'Artagnan nodded in an understanding manner and only Athos saw his free hand curl into a fist on the blanket.

"So that's something to look forward to", he stated morosely. Constance put a hand on his knee, offering her comfort. "We'll all be there to help you through it."

Sensing the boy's reluctance to talk about the topic, Athos continued. "And then there's the mission. The King ordered us to escort de Balzac to the palace for questioning. We weren't able to do that yet."

"And by now he probably has hundreds of them guards patrolling the walls", Porthos said. To answer d'Artagnan's question why they hadn't tried again right after bringing him to the Lady's mansion, Athos answered that they all needed a few days to recover, especially Aramis, who'd received a concussion during their rescue. This revelation caused d'Artagnan's guilty conscience to surge forward. "Sorry about that. If not for me, you wouldn't have been there."

"Yes I would. We would've been there to catch the comte. And it's just a scratch, don't worry about it."

"A scratch like the ones on your throat?", d'Artagnan asked. Aramis laughed, brushing off the issue completely. "Don't worry about that one, either. That was basically our mistake for tying you down." After a moment of consideration, d'Artagnan nodded. Then his face turned thoughtful. "I might know a way into the mansion that doesn't involve battling a battalion of hired guards."

Athos interest was piqued. After all, the comte had told him that d'Artagnan had tried to escape twice, so he must know the layout of the house quite well. "Can you describe the way?"

"No, I'll need to show you. And it might be a tight fit for Porthos", d'Artagnan said with an apologetic look at the man. Porthos huffed loudly. "Did he just call me fat?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

It was a miracle. A wonder. Or, as Aramis suspected, a really good trick. He had tried to get to the bottom of how she did it for the last hour, but just couldn't figure it out. Magic, perhaps. Judging from the befuddled look on Porthos' face, it had to be dark magic.

If even a man trained in the Court didn't have a clue, Aramis could openly and honestly say he was impressed. "So how do you do it? I know Porthos is cheating, yet you keep winning and taking his coins." Accross the table, Sylvie laughed, delicately crossing her arms in front of her chest. Although the joyful sound grated at Aramis' aching head, he smiled right back, as charmingly as he could manage. "C'mon, darling, you know you want to tell."

"No, I really don't. A woman's got to have her secrets", Sylvie replied smoothly and collected her winnings. "I better visit Athos now, see whether he's still asleep."

"You're truly a prodigy." Her concern for his friend was heartwarming and Aramis quietly congratulated Athos on choosing this remarkable female to fall for. After Mylady, anything would have been a step up, but as he watched Sylvie leave, he felt nothing but respect for her and the changes she prompted in Athos. Sharing his brother with her would be a pleasure.

After she'd left, he turned to his other brother, who was disgruntedly picking up the cards while Constance looked on from her seat at the table. Wisely, she'd refrained from betting anything.

"Either of you guys have an idea how our resident card-shark managed to rip off Porthos?", Aramis inquired and blissfully ignored the irritated harrumph from Porthos. The bright evening sun that was blazing through the windows was harder to disregard, but Aramis simply bit the inside of his cheek and didn't bat an eye, knowing he had to pretend to be fine for another while. A few hours, then he could go to sleep and rest without warranting any worries.

Constance shrugged in an unconcerned manner, her mind still focused on the game. "I think she might have picked up a few cards each time she reached for her water. Those wide sleeves would have concealed the movement."

"Why didn'tcha say anythin?", Porthos growled without any real anger. Like Aramis, he seemed mostly impressed by Athos' lady friend. His fingers stroked his curly beard thoughfully as he pondered Conctance's suggestion. "Woulda been possible... What do you think, d'Artagnan?"

Naturally, all their heads turned in the direction where he lay propped up on several pillows, a fine blanket tucked tightly around his shoulders. It was clear that the boy hadn't listened and Aramis smiled fondly when he saw the furrowed brows that signaled that d'Artagnan was playing catch-up on the conversation. "I didn't see her do it", he muttered eventually, his voice still hoarser and less lively than Aramis would have liked. The dark circles beneath his eyes reminded the medic that the boy probably felt at least as bad as he himself and merely wasn't able to hide it as well.

Quickly, he got up and placed his calloused hand on d'Artagnan's cheek, not in the caress he so desperately wanted to give but in order to check his temperature. Slightly too warm, he established before d'Artagnan evaded his touch. The underlying tension between them tore at Aramis and his hand instincively started out to the small cuts he felt tingling on his skin. Before it could reach them, however, Aramis changed trajectory and disguised the movement as a scratch. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan's perceptive eyes darkened and Aramis cursed inwardly at his lapse of control.

"Your skin feels dry. You should drink more", he admonished, thinking one the one side about the inevitable fever that would go with the withdrawal, and on the other side about diverting the attention off himself.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Your voice is hoarse, that means your throat is dry."

"That's due to the strangling, not thirst", d'Artagnan argued, then pressed his lips closed in annoyance. He didn't even seem to notice the wince his retort caused Porthos and Aramis, or the guilt etched into their features. Aramis stepped back, ready to accept surrender and leave their Gascon to his devices when Constance passed him and sat next to d'Artagnan, holding out her filled cup to him.

"Here. Drink it, even if it's just to please me", she said and batted her lashes at him in a move halfway between irony and flirtation. d'Artagnan's reaction was a lot more intense than anticipated, his arm shooting out beneath the blanket to smack the cup right out of Constance's hands.

"I said I'm not thirsty. Stop smothering me!", he snarled, tone agressive enough to startle them all. With a barely concealed low curse at stubborn pride, Constance gathered her skirts and left the room. At the doorway, she paused and looked back at the pale form in bed. Aramis could see a certain softness entering her expression, but her response was as fierce as that of a wounded lioness. "If you ever get over yourself and stop trying to push everyone away, perhaps you'd see that we're only trying to be there for you."

"Constance...", d'Artagnan started with a grimace, trailing off as she forcefully closed the door behind her. Aramis looked down on his little brother and shook his head. "You're gonna have to apologize for that sooner or later."

"I know."

Meanwhile, Porthos had picked up the cup and Aramis didn't miss the longing glance the boy shot in that direction. This time, Aramis was unwilling to let it pass, so he wordlessly refilled the mug and brought it over, holding it out of reach though. He didn't fancy having his own hands slapped.

"You trying to extort me now by withholding that?" d'Artagnan's voice was heavily laced with sarcasm, whereas Aramis voice was nothing but kind. "No, of course not. Why won't you drink something even though we all know that you need it?"

Perhaps it was his patience that finally did the obstinate youth in, but suddenyl his frustration boiled over. He threw off his blanket, exposing his uncontrollably trembling hands, shouting: "That's why, alright? Because I can't! I can't even feed myself right now!"

"Oh my God, I should have realized...", Aramis muttered, horrified.

"Not your fault. It's not like you're the one who drugged me in the first place." That was a punch far below the belt and judging from the expression on his face, d'Artagnan knew that as well. They stared at each other for an instant, Aramis trying to convey how sorry he was for deserting his brother and how much he wanted to help while d'Artagnan oscillated between helpless anger, pent-up frustration and looking terribly lost.

Neither of them had accounted for Porthos, though. Their third brother had listened, fuming quietly until d'Artagnan's last spiteful comment fully ignited his fuse. Not thinking about it, the man grabbed d'Artagnan's shirt and roughly shook him, then proceeded to slam the back of his shoulders against the headboard.

"Do you even hear yourself?", he bellowed, hand still pushing the astonished boy against the bedframe, "Never do that to Aramis again. You and I both know he's doin' the best he can. Don't make light of that. Never, you hear me?" The last question, Porthos accentuated with another sharp shake and a push that had the bed rocking back and d'Artagnan bite back a groan. At the sound of pain, Aramis surged forward to interfere, surprised when the young musketeer waved him off and instead sought Porthos eyes.

"You're right. I shouldn't have done that. And I'm sorry", he said earnestly. Porthos released him, dusted off his pants and stood, huffing. "Good." A moment of silence passed before remorse flooded onto Aramis best friend's features and he scratched the his neck in embarrassment. "I'm sorry about the rough handling, pup. Didn't mean no harm."

"I know", d'Artagnan chuckled, "Although it would have been justified." As the two of them traded tired grins, Aramis again raked a hand over his face. If things continued in this vein, he'd have grey hair before this was over. "You're incorrigible, both of you", he called as Porthos also left the room after he'd quietly asked Aramis whether he'd be okay on his own. Aramis was glad for some time with d'Artagnan, hopefully they'd be able to clear the air between them.

"How about that drink now?", he asked with forced cheerfullness and turned back to d'Artagnan, who smiled even though his eyes had gone glassy with pain. "Yeah." As he held the cup to his lips to allow the boy to swallow its contents, Aramis noticed again how warm his skin was to the touch and narrowed his eyes in concern.

"How are you feeling? The honest answer, please", Aramis cautioned, knowing full well that he was behaving like a mother hen, or, better, a mother bear guarding its youngest. Nonetheless, he couldn't help himself and decided to try a herbal tea when d'Artagnan admitted that his muscles ached for no apparent reason and he was beginning to feel nauseous.

Aramis own aches reminded him that he needed rest as he sat next to the boiling water the maid had brought up and carefully mixed in a few of the ingredients he'd stored in his saddlebag. The water soon turned green and Aramis had to concede that the scent that wafted up to his nose wasn't aiding his headache. As expected, d'Artagnan eyed the foul-smelling concoction with thinly veiled mistrust.

"What's that?", he wanted to know, his tone disgusted as if he'd just seen one of Athos' attempts to cook them dinner.

"Something to help, trust me", Aramis said, then flinched inwardly as he realized he'd inadvertly posed a far more fundamental question than he'd wanted. After Athos had been rejected, Aramis feared the worst and was pleasantly surprised when d'Artagnan simply nodded. "I do. And I have the sneaking suspicion that I don't have much of a choice in the matter anyway if I want to avoid your nagging."

"Absolutely. Don't make me restrain you again", Aramis joked, sporting a bright smile. His footsteps back to bed were lighter now that he knew that the confrontation between the two of them and Porthos had at least resolved part of their problems.

d'Artagnan laughed, mischief shining out of his eyes and making the colorful bruises around them seem a lot less awfull. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?", the boy teased back, one eyebrow raised. He swallowed the liquid without hesitation when it was offered. A few minutes later, however, his hands went to his stomach, and Aramis, who'd seen the signs, hastily fetched a bucket.

"There goes my hard work", he remarked while d'Artagnan heaved and heaved. d'Artagnan's black hair had taken on a sweaty moisture again and his bangs were shadowing his face as he apologised. The marksman gave in to his fatherly instincts and smoothed back the boy's hair. "Just get better, brother."

Over the next few hours, d'Artagnan first got worse, fever, goosebumps, running eyes and nose as well as constant stomach cramps turning the peaceful afternoon into a tug-of-war with the unrelenting drugs. Aramis stayed at his side and diligently alternated between changing the bucket and wiping d'Artagnan's forehead with a wet cloth.

Constance and Porthos stayed away, probably to cool their anger and Athos was most likely still sleeping off his worry for his protégé's life, so it was just the two of them when d'Artagnan finally got better. The shaking subsided, as did the fever and the cramps. Only the occasional shudder still tore through the battered body. Aramis, who had gotten paler while the screeching street musicians that populated his head ever since the hit on the head got louder, sighed in relief. After changing the sheets, he stumbled towards a chair to rest, but was held back by d'Artagnan. "Aramis, don't be a hardass now. The bed is big enough for both of us."

"I don't..."

"Of course you need it. You cared for me all day even though you should have been taking it easy yourself. Don't think I forgot about your concussion."

"Thank you", Aramis said, too exhausted to argue. If he did, he'd loose anyways. d'Artagnan was silent while the medic took off his boots and settled in beside his friend. Only after they were both comfortable and Aramis had cushioned his head with his arms in a relaxed fashion did he speak. "I really am sorry about drawing blood, you know? And about taking you prisoner."

"Taking me prisoner? Sweetheart, I let you take me prisoner, you wouldn't have stood a chance otherwise."

"Is that a challenge?", d'Artagnan asked, a bit of his natural sass creeping back into his shivering frame. He nodded thankfully as Aramis pulled the blankets up around him before settling down again himself.

"Although I'd love to see you try, we better not push our luck with Athos. I bet he's mad at us already." In the darkness, Aramis couldn't make out the expression on the Gascon's face exactly, but the boy didn't tense at the mention of his mentor's name, so that was progress.

"Athos is going to have our hides for this one", d'Artagnan said morosely after a while. Beside him, Aramis smirked. "He is, isn't he?"

Whatever d'Artagnan was going to answer, Aramis didn't hear it as sleep tugged at him and the musketeer complacently let himself be carried away. He didn't stir as the door opened an hour later and a man entered. Upon seeing his two brothers snuggled into the blankets on the bed, Athos observed them unmovingly. They didn't wake as a small half-smile curled up his lips, nor did they notice him close the window to keep out the evening chill or when he left on silent feet, the satisfied smile still locked on his lips.

* * *

 **A/N** : I know, I know. Another long chapter without much plot, but I promise there will be action soon. And for all those of you who missed Athos this chapter: the next one will probably be from his POV. Is there anything in particular you'd like to see?  
And how did you like this chapter? Please leave a review let me know!


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N** : Hey guys, it's me again. I just wanted to **thank you** all again for your support. With the last chapter, I've officially passed the 25k mark and I never would've gotten that far without you. Your follows (incredible 69 in number!), favorites and most of all your continuous reviews (over a hundred, can you believe it?), which surpassed my former record a few chapters ago, are what motivates me to return to this story almost every day. So, thanks, I guess!  
I tried to include all your wishes into this chapter, do you think I did okay? **Enjoy!**

 **at Debbie** : Yep, I received your link, searched for the story and found it with the help of the second message you sent. It's already bookmarked. :) I didn't include your directions into the reviews, cause it wasn't really on the topic of my story. Nonetheless, I'm glad you sent it as I'm really curious about your story.

 **at Aingealsuh** : I'm so sorry! I totally missed your review when replying to all the others! Please don't be mad! Hope you still stick with my story after you didn't abandon it while I was sick. Thanks for wishing me well and thanks, too, for the compliment. I'm really glad you like my story.

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

It would be like the popular childrens' game of Snakes in The Gutter. The guards would act as the snakes, trying to catch the opposing team of musketeers that tried to cross the gutter, or in this case the grounds around the castle. Only that one team had about ten times as many members and they'd be playing with swords instead of playing tag, which made the game a tad more deadly than the childrens' version. And, Athos concluded, they definitely wouldn't all be friends at the end of the game.

Nevertheless, the same rules applied. "Don't let them see you until the very last stretch between the oak tree and the walls, or better yet stay hidden. And try not to get caught this time", Athos commanded quietly, his gaze straying from the route they had chosen to d'Artagnan. The boy didn't react to Athos' remark, neither taking it as the joke it had been meant to be or as the earnest warning he'd also wanted to convey. Athos could see how tense d'Artagnan was and apparently, the comment hadn't improved the situation.

Neither had talking to him, Athos remembered, thinking back to the morning when they'd left the estate. He'd found d'Artagnan in the stables, deep in conversation with Constance while he saddled his horse. Upon seeing that the woman's eyes were tinged red as if she'd been crying, he'd kept himself hidden in order to not interrupt the lovebirds before their arguments were resolved. Being the unwilling spy that he now was, he cringed when Constance accused d'Artagnan of toying with her emotions and leading her astray.

Athos was sure that d'Artagnan would speak rashly and ruin his troubled relationship alltogether, but to his surprise and satisfaction, the boy advanced to Constance's side and pulled her into a wild kiss, thereby cutting off the firehead's tirade. Athos averted his eyes like the gentleman he no longer was, only perking up when he heard Constance's breathless response that he better stop doing that. So this wasn't the first time d'Artagnan had acted like this? Quite the charmer, which means that being around Aramis must be rubbing off on him, Athos thought to himself.

After d'Artagnan replied something that was too low for Athos to hear and hugged Constance tightly, she muttered that he needed to stay alive and return to Paris soon, then she left through the huge front door of the barn. Warm sunlight from the courtyard bathed her in golden light and made her shine like an angel, whereas d'Artagnan and Athos in his position at the back of the barn stayed cloaked in shadows. As soon as she'd left, the Gascon returned to the task at hand.

"d'Artagnan, let me help you with that", Athos said, opening the smaller back door to the room and reaching for the heavy saddle d'Artagnan tried to mount with just one hand.

"I've got it covered." Even though the refusal cut a tiny, bleeding slice into Athos' thick skin and was and a grim statement to how far their trust issues hat progressed, it wasn't unexpected. In his usual calm demeanor, Athos leaned against the box next to d'Artagnan and crossed his legs, watching the boy struggle. He finally needed to learn that accepting help was not the same as admitting defeat. Teaching him had always been more physical show-and-tell than guiding speeches, so he stayed where he was even when the saddle crashed to the ground after d'Artagnan had been unable to fasten the cinch.

"You sure you're ready for this?", Athos asked, deliberately rubbing salt into the wound. He needed d'Artagnan's notorious temper to flare or else he feared he'd never get through the boy's walls.

"I am. You've seen me fight yesterday. Those three fingers won't stop me." Determined, wound up too tight, not yet angry.

"Your back might."

"Aramis said I'd be fine as long as I don't overtax myself too much."

"And are you? Fine?" Athos stepped closer and grasped the saddle. At first, d'Artagnan tried to yank it out of his mentor's grasp, but after that didn't work, he eventually met his gaze. If he saw the honest worry in Athos eyes, he didn't even acknowledge it, let alone back down. d'Artagnan simply continued to pretend. "I'm good. And we better get going, Aramis and Porthos must be waiting."

"Wait." Now his voice was sharp, edged with authority. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan didn't pause until Athos clamped a hand onto the boy's elbow and bodily stopped him from leaving. "You can't avoid me forever. When you said you didn't trust me..."

"That's what this is about?", d'Artagnan asked, seemingly exasperated. Athos could see the clenched jaw muscles and the slight tremor that ran through him, though, and wasn't fooled. "It was a slip of the tongue, alright? Forget it, I didn't mean it. Of course I trust you."

Lie. He could see it in the way d'Artagnan averted his eyes soon after he'd uttered the words and in the way he didn't return Athos grip on his arm. He could hear it in the resigned tone of his voice. He could feel it in the hollow emptiness in his own chest. The boy did not trust him, not even remotely. And damn him if that realization didn't hurt. Unwilling to let go, Athos again prohibited the Gacon's attempt to leave the barn. "I should leave you here to rest. You're not yet back to normal."

Ultimately, that got d'Artagnan's attention like a red flag to a bull as he forcefully wrenched his arm away and answered: "Perhaps I'll never be. But that's pointless. You need me." I do, Athos shouted internally, but not only for the completion of the mission! I need you right here to absolve me of my crimes and to remind me of what it's like to be truly alive. As d'Artagnan seemed adamant to forget all about their brotherhood, though, he didn't voice his thoughts and instead nodded curtly, whereupon the youth turned away from him and left.

"Athos?", Aramis asked, quietly bringing him back to the present, "The watch should change again within the next few minutes. We should probably try our luck now, while there's still clouds to obscure the moonlight."

"Agreed", Porthos resonated from the right, "this drizzle is making me grouchy." Both their statements were true and voiced the same things Athos felt, which caused him to emerge from their hiding spot at the edge of the woods and sprint for the first place of cover: an ugly fountain that displayed a fat group of angels peeing into the knee-high, grey basin. Whoever the impostor was, he certainly didn't have style, Athos decided when he ducked behind the stone structure and got a close-up of the chubby angels and their screwed-up, leering faces. Aramis' smirk at the statues merely supported that assumption.

They made it to the next three stations without incident. On their way to the gnarled oak that marked the last break before they'd reach the overgrown part of the mansion's walls that would according to d'Artagnan grant them access, Athos allowed himself a pleased release of breath. The snakes weren't protecting their gutter very well. Aramis joined him easily, but then it happened: the door to the guard's rooms upon the outer scarp wall creakily swung open. Three minutes early, Athos confirmed with a look at his pocket watch and a twist in his gut as his oberserving gaze cut back to Porthos' and d'Artagnan's location where movement heralded a catastrophy.

Aramis cursed in Spanish, motioning for their Gascon to stay back, but the daredevil part of the boy must have taken over. Instead of returning to the safety of his hideout, he increased his speed, arms and legs pumping, each long stride propelling him forward like an arrow shooting towards them. It wouldn't be enough, Athos estimated grimly, seeing the arm and shoulder of the guard that was already out the door while his little brother was still fifteen feet away. The boy must have realized the same fact, because his eyes widened and an almost apologetic look crossed his face before a brash grin took hold and he dove for the ground in a shallow angle.

"What...?" That was all Aramis had time to say before d'Artagnan's body had careened accross the slippery ground like a kid on a waterslide and barreled into Aramis with a breakneck speed that brought them both down.

"Hey there", d'Artagnan quipped carelessly, his muddy torso draped halway over Aramis, "Miss me?"

"Fool", Athos said reflexively and not in an unkind way. D'Artagnan didn't take the comment well, though. "I'm here, aren't I? And they didn't notice anything."

"You did ruin your clothes, though", Aramis pointed out and was rewarded with another exhilarated grin in his direction. "That's camouflage."

"Yeah right." As Porthos appeared next to them, more than a bit flustered at their close encouter with detection, Aramis stopped joking around for d'Artagnan and the rest of the group to dart into the bushes right next to the wall, where they found an opening that lead into the cellar of the building. However, their entrance was blocked by several thick bars.

"How are we gonna get through that?", Porthos wanted to know, obviously displeased that they hadn't brought any tools. He and Aramis stared in wonder as d'Artagnan knelt down and plucked out the two bars in the middle without any effort. "How did you do that?" This time, Porthos deep voice reverberated with something akin to admiration and even Athos had to admit that he was slightly impressed. Contrary to his comrades, though, he'd already deduced the only logical conclusion.

"You these made preparations while you were a captive, didn't you?"

As soon as d'Artagnan had nodded, Aramis face scrunched up and he pulled the boy up next to him. "Why didn't you flee? You could have escaped, the path was clear!"

"It wasn't. By the time I finally got the last bar free, Remy had nearly caught up to me."

"So you didn't even try?" Porthos sounded as if he could scarcely believe it. Athos, too, had trouble understanding the tale, but he knew the boy better than anyone. "You abandoned the escape plan in order to attack the comte, didn't you? That's how he got the scar on his face", he hypothesized. His heart clenched retroactively at d'Artagnan's willingness to put himself into harm's way.

"Got pretty close to blinding him, too." Was that pride shining out of his eyes? Athos couldn't quite place the emotions that flitted over the young musketeer's face in rapid succession and inferred that there was more to the story. Coaxing the truth out of the boy would have to wait, however. "Let's go."

Once inside, d'Artagnan took the lead and confidently showed them the way through the cellar. The group passed a small section of the dungeons and Athos' senses were assaulted by the atrocious smell once again. His hands closed into fists as he battled down the demons that rose with the memory of d'Artagnan being whipped. The boy himself had a tight handle on himself, his pace pale but his gait unwavering. They only halted when a voice called out through the single cell door with a small window.

"Messieurs? You are King's musketeers, are you not? I reckognize your pauldron." Stepping closer, Athos saw a man about his own age, his once rich clothing in tatters. Nonetheless, something about him reminded Athos of the noblemen he'd spent his childhood around. "Who are you?", he asked, leaning in.

"My name is Remy de Balzac and I am the righful owner of this estate!"

It took all of Athos trained nonchalance not to balk at that unexpected revelation. After a moment to sort through his mind, it made sense, though. By keeping the comte prisoner in his own house, the Spanish spy made sure he'd always be able to get his hands on information regarding the man's past. Slipping into the role would be infinitely easier if you'd have a playbook by which to act. Athos nodded thoughtfully, already applying the information to his directive and adapting the best possible strategy.

"Are there still servants in the house that would be loyal to you if you'd try to retake the mansion?", he inquired, his sharp gaze measuring the noble-made-prisoner. To his credit, the man took some time to consider the question, which made his answer a lot more credible. "Yes. Frederique, my master huntsman, and his second in-command Pelletier as well. Aubin, my former head of the guard. My housekeeper, Fanny. She'd rally the troops, no doubt."

"Not Aubin. He's was one of the men at the ambush at the barn", d'Artagnan threw in, but the comte didn't change his opinion. "I've known that man since I was three years old. We grew up together, fast friends. If he follows that monster, it is only because he thinks him to be me."

"Porthos, let this man out of his cell." Athos had made up his mind. The integrity of the comte had convinced him, so he took Aramis and Porthos aside as soon as the latter had picked the lock on the door. "You two go with de Balzac. Convince the men and women in this building to follow this man and not their former master."

"And what will you and d'Artagnan be doing?", Aramis asked, prompting Athos to shake his head. "We're going after the impostor."

"Is that wise?" Aramis had lowered his voice, his tone hinting at the uncertainty he felt. Athos didn't know whether his friend was concerned about their general well-being, the half-healed injuries of their little brother or the complications of the relationship between them. It didn't matter, really. He knew d'Artagnan would need this, need closure to move on, which meant that Athos would travel to the ends of the world to provide it if necessary.

Fortunately, they only had to get to the right chamber of this very building, thus Athos lead them out of the cellar. At the intersection that branched out to the staircase that would take them to the second level of the quietly sleeping mansion, he hesitated. Where would a man like de Balzac's impostor have his quarters? He needs to control everything, Athos analytical mind supplied, try the very center.

Sure enough, that was the hallway that had a guard posted in front of a wide, two-door entrance. d'Artagnan, who'd followed silently so far, drew his rapier at the sight. "Ouvrard", he whispered, then rushed the unsuspecting man. A fight ensued, but before Athos could even reach them, a quick turn and a well-placed shove from d'Artagnan had the enemy stumbling in his mentor's direction. Three quick strikes from Athos efficiently incapacitated the man.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan had vanished into the master bedroom. Athos heard a cracking sound as if someone had snapped his fingers sharply and an equally harsh command, then something metallic hit the floor. What the hell? Pulse racing with unused adrenaline, Athos entered, immediately surveying the damage.

The room was dimly lit by a cluster of candles next to a single huge window. Both men's and women's wardrobe was strewn accross the floor heedlessly. The bed was rumpled and empty while the impostor loomed over a weaponless d'Artagnan, unarmed himself. Athos was on his way over to step between the two when a all of a sudden a wailing woman flung herself into his arms. "Help me!"

Reflexively, Athos caught her, then would have loved to push her away again as he reckognized Amantine's white-blond hair and scowling features. "You?" The words tumbled out of his mouth in confused astonishment.

"Yes, it's me", Amantine replied at his chest, burying her head against him. Something in her voice had changed, though, a tiny sense of satisfaction creeping in that had Athos on edge. Still, he wasn't prepared for the slim, elegant dagger that, guided by her hand, entered his body just beneath his ribcage.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Don't put your life in someone's hands, they're bound to give it away, Mylady had once said to him when they'd run into each other in Paris. He'd laughed at her then, taunting her for her inability form a bond with anyone like he'd done with Porthos, d'Artagnan and Aramis. Now, however, as he felt the temperature in the room suddenly drop to freezing upon being stabbed, he somehow thought that she might have been right all along.

Something deep in his core recoiled at the thought, though. As long as he wasn't six feet under, he still had time to prove her wrong. The moment he realized that was also the moment he decided to fight back. Athos' hand came up and crashed into Amantine's newly healed cheek. Although the musketeer couldn't really feel the impact, it must have hurt, because the woman's head snapped back and she was catapulted off him, loosing her grip on the dagger in the process.

Involuntarily, Athos' eyes were drawn to the golden handle of the weapon that protuted grotesquely from his own chest. Should he pull it out? Fighting the witch with her own dagger seemed fitting, but he remembered Aramis' lesson about foreign matter often acting like a cork in a bottle and the swordsman really didn't fancy bleeding out before he'd rescued d'Artagnan. Until Amantine was out of the picture, though, the young man would have to fend for himself. He was a musketeer, after all. He'd be fine. Right? Athos wasn't so sure.

He didn't have time to dwell on the predicament any longer, anyways, as Amantine sprang at him like a mad wildcat, lunging for the dagger's shaft. Athos gripped her shoulders and, using her plentiful momentum, lifted her and threw her straight over his crouching body. Her claws ripped through his hair, yet she couldn't find enough purchase to decelerate her descend and hit the floor hard. Normally, Athos didn't brawl with women. Normally, he wouldn't have felt satisfaction at the ungraceful impact. This wasn't normal.

"Stop it." He said, glad that his voice had remained stable and controlled despite the numbness and buttery feeling in his body. Her answering growl probably meant that she wasn't complying, Athos judged, ready when she came at him again in nearly the same fashion as before. Athos didn't have time to draw his sword, nor did he want to kill the deranged woman until absolutely necessary. Instead, he opened his hands, planning to catch her at the neck and use Porthos' schooling in hand to hand combat and prevent the bloodflow to the brain for a moment, thus rendering her unconscious.

His pretty ideas went up in flames when Amantine aimed an uncontrolled kick at his knees, which he should've had no problem dodging. In the critical moment, however, his body failed him, his muscles locking up and at the same time seemingly turning liquid. Her bare feet hit him just below the knees, centrally, and Athos tried to turn his body sideways during his fall so that he wouldn't impale himself on the dagger by landing on it. Dropping awkwardly onto his shoulder should have been a win, then. Deducting points for blinding pain, but still a win. As he panted and tried to right the spinning carrousel of a world again, it didn't feel like one.

A groan escaped when Amantine jumped onto him with a weird parody of a hurdle jump as if she were a performer at a circus. One of her hands was positioned on his chest and the force of her pounce pushed him back to the floor so hard his head bounced back painfully from the premium parquet. Her other hand curled around the dagger's handle and gave it an ever so slight jerk.

"Make one wrong move, monsieur musketeer, and I twist this up and in." Right into his heart. Message received. Athos froze, then lowered his half-raised arms slowly back down. Noticing the surrender, she smiled. The grin was a truly wicked thing, gleefull like a cat that had caught the mouse. Athos wasn't a mouse, though, and didn't enjoy being toyed with. Rather, he was a man with a mission.

"What is he doing to d'Artagnan?", Athos asked and turned his head a bit to sneak a peek at the impostor and his brother. The boy had backed into a corner, his hands cradling his head and his eyes frighteningly empty.

"Classical conditioning", Amantine replied off-handedly, almost bored. She sat down on him, pinning his hips beneath her weight and examined the scene next to them with clinical detachment. "See Remy's murmuring? He's using the signal words we taught the brat during the time he was my dorm-mate."

"Taught him?", Athos repeated, voice strained, "Taught him how?"

She shrugged, the careless action moving the blade in his chest and causing him to clench his fists in agony. Nonetheless, Amantine noticed and the disconcerting smirk crept back onto the witch's face. "Oh, you know, drugs have all kinds of uses. For him, it felt like weeks we had him with us. More than enough time to instill certain reflexes to pre-selected input. The far more important question right now", she stated, "Is how much pain it's going to take to make you scream. I do so like a good scream of agony."

"You're mad", he gasped, only now understanding the extent of her treachery and insanity. They'd all been mislead by finding her in the prison cell. The enemy of my enemy certainly stays my enemy, Athos thought, then winced as Amantine began to rotate the blade in his body. It hurt, God, it hurt so bad he couldn't bear it and yet he wouldn't make a sound, refusing to fulfill her sick fantasies.

"A difficult case, I see", Amantine drawled. She drew one of her long nails down his temple, along his neck and collarbone, then returned her attention to the dagger while Athos simply focused on breathing and not passing out. He couldn't protect d'Artagnan if he passed out. Searching for any path of action that would stop her from torturing him, he asked the question at the forefront of his mind. "Why? Why do this?"

At that, Amantine giggled, the friendly sound far too innocent for the grim situation. "Because I love him, dummy. Sure, we had our difficulties, but we're soulmates and he allows me my games."

"You deserve each other", Athos pressed out between shallow breaths, his body twitching beneath her cruel ministrations.

"Well, thank you, musketeer!" Amantine said, pushing the dagger deeper with a flounce and a few degrees outwards to avoid internal organs. As the tip of the metal dug into his lowest rib bone, Athos couldn't contain a scream any longer. "d'Artagnan!"

* * *

It certainly wasn't a sound he'd heard before, but Athos' outcry propelled him back into reality more efficiently than any bucket of ice-cold water ever could have. From one second to the next, d'Artagnan's broken mind knitted itself back together, mending with a singular goal in mind. Find out who'd caused his brother so much pain and kill them, preferably painfully. Anger surged through him, burning out any lingering amounts of paralyzing fear.

His eyes cleared to the sight of Remy looming over him, the victory in his face crumbling to ashes like the city of pompeii. Before the comte could warn anyone, d'Artagnan exploded into motion and drew his main gauche with his left hand while rolling lithely to his feet. Yes, he felt some of the stitches on the cut on his back pop and a smallish stream of wet warm blood began to saturate his shirt. Furthermore, there was some pain from his broken fingers, but it was inconsequential and he needed to hit the bull's eye, which was located right in Remy's right pupil.

All kinds of witty lines streamed through the back of his mind, ranging from the childish 'Ta-daaa!' to friendly advice like 'When torturing somebody, you better disarm them first.' or the helpful 'Oh, I thought you had something in your eye'. In the end, d'Artagnan opted to stay silent, swung his arm forward with as much precision as he could muster and compensated for Remy's hurried attempt to get away by jumping at the man. Landing would certainly be unpleasant, d'Artagnan decided as his feet left the ground, but if de Balzac is dead by then I shall relish the discomfort. His body hit Remy's, his hand never straying and his weapon met its target with a sickening wet thud. As the young musketeer touched down on him and immediately rolled off, thus also pulling out the gory dagger, the dead man didn't even spasm.

A shriek echoed through the room, but it was neither Remy's nor Athos' exclamation of grief and heartbreak. It was Amantine whose fury shook the glass chandelier, her form that weighted down on his brother's, her hand on the dagger threatening his life. Right now, that hand was shaking terribly, prompting Athos' flat hands to press down on the floor in order to keep himself from moving and thus perhaps accidentally ending his own life. His eyes, however, were unerringly glued to d'Artagnan and a nearly unnoticeable curl of the lip indicated his happiness to see him alive and standing.

"d'Artagnan...", he started out, his tone for once raw with emotion. In reaction, Amantine jolted the dagger angrily. "Shut the hell up, musketeer!"

"Do that again and I'll kill you", d'Artagnan said darkly and God knew he meant it. He didn't know what to feel at the moment, too confused about what had happened. His brain was on overload, focusing on irrelevant details like the fact that Athos left eyebrow vibrated with a nervous tick, that his face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and that his shirt was ripped above at his collar. The one thing d'Artagnan knew with all his heart at that moment was the simple urge to get to his brother and pull him out of this mess alive.

"Stay back! I'll push the dagger into his musketeer heart – even one of the king's hounds won't survive that", Amantine yelled with eyes so far open it looked like she was close to having a stroke. "You can't hurt me, I hold all the power here. I will..."

Nothing, d'Artagnan finished silently. His attention had been tethered to Amantine's hand that was encompassing the handle like a constrictor snake and he'd seen the moment her own words convinced her of her superior position in the negotiations. In so doing, she'd forgotten that this wasn't a negotiation at all but rather a standoff. One that ended the moment her fingers relaxed and partially uncurled around the golden metal jutting out of Athos' chest.

Without an instance of self-doubt, d'Artagnan let his own weapon fly free of his grip. Spiralling one and a half times around itself, it embedded itself between Amantine's startled blue eyes. The impetus catapulted the woman off Athos, her long manicured nails scratching over her golden leverage on the two musketeers and changing its location a trifle.

"No!", d'Artagnan shouted in horror as Athos groaned and went still. Four long strides had the youth kneeling over his mentor. "Athos! Please don't be dead..." He could feel tears streaming down his face and maybe that wasn't very manly, but d'Artagnan didn't give a damn. Had he just killed his brother? Had he? Frantically, he searched for a pulse when a strong hand clasped his own. Sky-blue eyes met his, endless relief making his stomach drop back down to earth.

"That... was beyond reckless, d'Artagnan", Athos admonished, then smirked his unique grin, "But I'm glad you did it anyways."

d'Artagnan snorted, a sound caught between laughing and crying. His hand was still gripping Athos' fingers tightly, needing the reassurance that they'd made it. They'd survived. They were free. They could go back to Paris, go back to living.

"Help me up", Athos commanded, far less overrun by emotion than his student. Instead, he seemed impatient and his natural authority already surrounded him again like an expensive robe. d'Artagnan looked at him uncertainly, trying to understand whether the master swordsman even felt the same things he had felt. And whether strolling around with a dagger in one's chest might not be a danger to one's health. As if conjured up by d'Artagnan's questions about medicine, the doors burst open and Porthos emerged, coming to an abrupt halt as he saw the two bodies and the golden accessory Athos had unwillingly added to his outfit.

"What have you done to yourself this time?", he growled, bellowing for Aramis in his next breath, who followed him into the bedroom and looked equally stunned at the carnage.

"Seems like we missed all the action", he quipped, then saw the injury. "Athos...", he muttered, eyes switching back and forth between d'Artagnan's blood-covered hand and the dagger in the older man's chest. After he'd seen their intertwined hands, he grinned and strode over to them. Athos mildly let himself be examined and nodded in agreement. "Yes, you're late. Party's already over."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"Have you no conscience?", Athos asked pointedly. He couldn't understand the marksman's indignation after he'd just been accused of being an enterprising drama-queen, which in Athos' mind had been a valid concern. After all, Porthos and Aramis had single-handedly stormed the guard room at the mansion when they couldn't find Aubin and Pelletier.

The fight must have been a sight to behold, because his comrades had taken away a formidable load of scrapes and tales. Wishing he could have been there but nevertheless glad he'd been where he'd been in order to save d'Artagnan's life and be saved in return, Athos relaxed. Aramis smirked right back at him and replied: "I do have a conscience. It's locked in a little silver box in the back of my closet screaming Let me out, let me out, you're making bad choices!"

Porthos laughed loudly, whereas Athos slowly sobered and allowed the Spaniard to bend over his patient again to continue working on his wounds. Aramis had already pulled out the dagger after closely examining the angle it had entered in relation to Athos body. Upon inspection of the blood on the blade and the width and length of the weapon itself, he'd declared that Athos had been incredibly lucky. No irrepearable damage done, just a few muscles torn and the injury conducting shock. That's why Athos was bundled into multiple layers of blankets and situated closely to the fire, listening to his brother's banter.

Being stitched up had required Athos to sit still and they'd found out that he wasn't able to. His body felt both incredibly depleted and on edge, jittery as if tiny fire ants were crawling all over him. It irritated Athos, who was unused to being out of control, but in the end he was just glad that he was still breathing. Aramis quiet words disruped the veil of easygoing happiness, though. "We all make bad choices sometimes, brother."

Of course Athos knew right away what and who was meant. One of their brothers wasn't with them at the moment. He'd sent the boy away to "Go fetch firewood or something." when he could no longer stand the big, puppy-dog eyes that were filled with irrational guilt no matter how often he was told that Athos current state wasn't his fault.

Thinking about it made his tender head hurt, yet Athos couldn't detach his thoughts from his little brother. Young, foolhardy, stupid, reckless lifesaver that he was. And apparently, Athos was an open book right now, because Aramis grinned down at him. "He really got your goat this time, didn't he?"

"The impostor?", Athos said, playing dumb to stave off the inevitable lecture he'd receive from the Spaniard. Of course it didn't work, Aramis knew him far too well.

"You know who I'm talking about."

"d'Artagnan."

Aramis merely nodded, his nimble fingers continuing their journey through Athos' dark hair on their quest for bumps and bruises. He soon found the sizable lump on the back of his head that was a result from Amantine's ill-timed push. Whistling lowly, he congratulated his friend on being a hardhead. "Although at the moment I'm in doubt about whether there is anything in there", he said, knocking very lightly against Athos' skull. "Tell me, brother, are there any brain cells left alive inside?" There we go, Athos inwardly muttered in annoyance. Still, he wasn't above admitting his mistakes.

"I concede that I shouldn't have been so short with d'Artagnan."

"Ya think?", Aramis remarked ironically, proking the bruise and causing Athos to wince, both from the words and the touch.

"Perhaps telling the boy to stop gawking and make himself useful was not as polite as I should have been", Athos elaborated, letting out a long breath. He was beyond tired, yet he knew that sleep would be elusive unless he faced his demons. Namely, d'Artagnan, or at least the lack of trust between them.

"Cut the boy some slack, Athos. After all he's been through..."

Their conversation was cut short by the sounds of clashing steel from the corridor. Porthos, who'd kept silent, eagerly got up from his place at the windowsill, stating that he'd check out what was happening. When he was about to leave, Aramis had to comment. "Remember, my friend, that violence isn't the answer."

Porthos grinned. "You're right. Violence is the question and the answer is yes." Minutes later, Porthos returned with a dishevelled d'Artagnan in tow. The young musketeer seemed almost sheepish. "I was helping the housekeeper ward off some of the last men that were in league with the spy."

"Is Fanny alright?", Aramis inquired, which made both Porthos and d'Artagnan smile. "You should be asking whether the assailants are alright. She massacred one of them with a frying pan. It was ingenuous", Porthos answered. d'Artagnan shrugged and admitted that the woman seemed to have things well in hand. His gaze kept lingering on Athos, yet he never made eye-contact. Sensing Athos' need for privacy, Aramis smoothly grabbed Porthos by the arm. "Let's see what we can scrounge up in the way of food."

"I'll come with you", d'Artagnan offered, perhaps a little too quickly. Athos rolled his eyes; The boy was less than subtle. Determined to end the uncomfortable limbo they seemed caught in, he called out to him. "d'Artagnan. Stay."

At least this time the musketeer followed orders and although he fidgeted more than usually, his shoulders were squared back and his posture erect. Good. He'd need it. Athos brightened even more when d'Artagnan pulled something out from behind his back: a dark bottle of wine.

"That's why I was roaming the mansion", he said, sitting down on the edge of the cot Athos was lying on and handed the peace-offering to him. Silently, Athos accepted, waiting for the boy to start. When that didn't happen and they both started staring at each other like self-conscious maids, he groaned soundlessly, took a big gulp of the liquid and returned it before he broke the ice. "Come on, get it out of your system. Apologize."

"What would I have to apologize for?", d'Artagnan snapped while he put the bottle down in order to cross his arms in front of his chest.

"I don't know, but you looked like you needed to", Athos offered evenly.

"I didn't."

"Yes you were. Stop being childish about this." That had been the wrong thing to say, and if he'd been thinking clearly, he'd have known better. Taunting d'Artagnan about his youth never ended well, even if it hadn't been intentional. d'Artagnan's face darkened as if a stormcloud passed over him. It wasn't rain but rather lightning and thunder that would break loose, Athos realized, recognizing the clenched jaw and rigid line of his shoulders. So be it.

"Perhaps you wanted to say that you're sorry for being taken hostage at the barn." The last straw to break the camel's back, placed there intentionally, provoking.

"No! That wasn't my fault! In fact, it was yours!"

"How so?", Athos asked, trying not to let the angry words get to him. One of them needed to keep their head, but it was harder than expected when he saw the simmering coals of hurt and betrayal behind d'Artagnan's eyes. Somewhere in there was a boy and that part was terribly lost. Had been lost for a while now, ever since he'd endured more horrors than any man ever should.

"You gave the order to fall back."

"I did. It was the right decision."

"You left me!", d'Artagnan screamed, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. In that moment, Athos desperately wanted to hug him, but he doubted it would be appreciated. Instead, he tried to break down the last of d'Artagnan's walls.

"Do you remember who gave the order first? Do you remember who made the decision? That was you, d'Artagnan", he said gently, sitting up to close some of the space between them. d'Artagnan's breathing was ragged and he was pale, either from anger or the force of the memories he'd kept buried inside for far too long. Now, the dead were rising and coming for the boy, Athos could see it. And he swore to himself that he'd be there every step of the way until all of the ghosts were back in the past where they belonged.

"Sometimes, when it all got too much, I told myself that you were right outside the door, waiting for me to give the signal and as soon as I did, you'd rescue me", d'Artagnan told Athos, as quietly as the grave. Athos waited.

"But Remy knew. He made it so I saw you everywhere, but you never got me out. Aramis and Porthos, too. Remy took that away from me. And then he came and broke me."

"No, that's not true. You're far from broken, d'Artagnan. A broken man could not have killed his tormentors."

"One word from him sent me right back there", d'Artagnan argued, fire sparking inside, "I could have gotten you killed! Remy didn't even need to fight me. One word, then he had me. One word and I dropped my sword. I'm useless now."

"Do you really think that?" He was open now, vulnerable, and Athos knew one wrong word would destroy him, so he chose his answer carefully. "He is dead and you're alive. There is no bigger victory than that. The rest will heal."

"That's the problem, Athos!", d'Artagnan shouted, obviously frustrated. He used his broken hand to impatiently brush the bangs out of his face, then stood up abruptly. Athos felt his absence as if all the light of the sun had suddenly vanished and observed his protégé pace the room with growing concern. Each of his steps was more energetic than the last, each foot seemingly trying to stomp the carpet into submission or carry him a million miles away, which was what d'Artagnan was subconsciously trying to do, Athos suspected. The older musketeer took a deep breath, trying to keep his calm but knowing that he was as caught up in the flood of events as d'Artagnan was.

"What is the problem? Help me understand so we can deal with it", Athos urged, wishing he could get up and lend some form of physical support. With his muscles feeling like dead fish, that was impossible.

He barely managed to suppress a flinch when d'Artagnan turned around to face him as suddenly as he had risen. Tormented brown eyes met worried blue ones, warring for tranquility.

"I... he's still there. In my head. He's waiting for me to give him an opening", d'Artagnan tried to explain. Even though Athos tried, too, he wasn't certain what was meant until d'Artagnan continued. "It can be small things. A smell, a harmless gesture. And then he's there and drags me back down into the dungeon and I can't get out. I just can't get out!"

"A small gesture like the snap of someone's fingers?", Athos inquired, finally feeling his feet back on solid ground as his brother nodded. d'Artagnan was talking about the trained responses and the other shit they had forcefully ingrained in his mind. He should have known that problem wouldn't go away just because the evil doers weren't dwelling in the land of the living any longer.

"Did it happen again after the impostor was dead?", he asked sharply. The picture of misery, d'Artagnan nodded again, still now. Head hanging, unmoving. "In the kitchens. It was the smell. Musk. That's what Remy smelled like. I didn't even notice I had been gone until there was a circle of worried people surrounding me and shaking me." Unable to control himself in time, Athos cursed. He wasn't back at the shore, he was so far out of his depth that he couldn't even see land in the distance. Frankly, he had no clue what to do. Aramis might know, hopefully. For now, Athos needed d'Artagnan to fight, so he told him just that.

"Fight it. We're going to find a solution, I swear it on my life. Until then, I need you to fight, do you understand?" The commanding note in his voice caused d'Artagnan to look at him and as their gazes met, he felt something cross between them, an agreement of sorts. Nonetheless, d'Artagnan wasn't reassured. He walked back to Athos' side slowly as if a the weight of the world was pressing down on him, grasping his hand in a gesture of pleading.

"I need you to fix me, Athos. Please!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Five days later, Constance sighed at the amazingly good smell of fresh pastries. It was one of those little things you didn't even miss until they were gone for a few days. Now, back in her favorite city of Paris and reclining comfortably on one of Athos' couches, she simply enjoyed the ripe fruits life was handing her. In this case, the company of close friends and a lazy breakfast. The pastries, after Athos brought them into the room, somehow were too good to be true, arousing her well-earned suspicion when it came to foodstuffs in the capital.

"Where did you get them?", she asked, picking up one of them and holding it between two delicate fingers. While the boys' attention focused on her, Aramis and d'Artagnan looking curious, she kept her eyes on Athos. The swordsman was pale, almost white even. He'd also moved with less of the dangerous grace he normally showed when he put down the pastries. Be that as it may, Athos didn't seem to be rattled about her questions regarding the breakfast's origin. The usual, really, that man rarely cared about anything aside from fighting and his sacred brotherhood. Therefore, his answer was as vague as anticipated.

"I bought it from a guy."

"Does this guy have a name?"

"I'm sure he does. But do I know what it is? No."

"Men", Constance tsked with disdain, which caused Aramis to smirk at her knowingly. Looking at the baked goods in front of her, she decided to risk it. Dying of food poisoning might be unpleasant, but having those pastries in front of her and not being able to sink her teeth into them would be a special kind of torture. Of course, d'Artagnan felt obliged to comment on her change of mind, which really wasn't very clever of him. He should know by now that she shot verbal arrows as fast as any musketeer could fire his pistol.

"You know, I still haven't forgiven you", she challenged, not too serious. d'Artagnan still seemed worried, though, and actually knelt in front of her, reaching for her hands with his own warm ones. "I love you. You're beautiful, smart and kind."

"Well, you know what they say. Opposites attract."

"Ouch." d'Artagnan's canted call of hurt was almost drowned out by Porthos' and Aramis' boisterous laugh. Even the slighted Gascon couldn't help but grin at her. Constance was struck again by the dimmed intensity of his smile and felt something in her heart twist painfully. Because for all the brave façade he put up, she knew that he was as far from okay as the New World was from France.

As if reading her mind, Athos cleared his throat. The room quieted, anxiousness creeping in like a shadow or a cold hand sneaking around everyone's throat. Strangling their jokes and laughter with its towering presence.

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, letting his eyes roam over them and lingering on Constance for a while until it flickered back to the boys. "Alright, I'm just going to address the elephant in the room. We need to repair my brain. And we need to do it right now", he stated, bluntly to the point. Because according to Aramis and Dr. Lemay's semi-expert opinion, the longer these new twisted paths of his thoughts were treaded upon, the harder it would be to return to his old ones and also because d'Artagnan was simply who he was: he never did anything half-heartedly and patience wasn't his strongest suit. Constance smiled as the memory of their first meeting rose. So much had changed since then. She had changed, too, gotten stronger.

"I'll do it", she said in a determined manner, staring down Athos until the swordsman nodded. d'Artagnan grinned at her, although it was a bit hollow. She smiled back, sorry for what she about to do.

"Close your eyes", she ordered and held his gaze as long as she could. Whatever happened, even if the world went down in flames, she'd never forget the compassion and love shining in those warm brown orbs. Constance took a deep breath, pulled a perfume bottle out of Athos' drawer and sprayed her own arm with it. Immediately, the sweet scent of musk penetrated her nose.

No going back now, she told herself as she marched back over to the dark green settee d'Artagnan was sitting on. Grasping his chin more firmly than she normally would, she sent up a quick prayer that things would be better this time as she tilted his head back and then loudly snapped her fingers. Turns out her reference to the apocalypse hadn't been too far off, at least not for d'Artagnan. As far as she could tell, he was drawn into the inner workings of his manipulated mind almost immediately. First, he went stock still, then shivering took over and only a few seconds later, he curled in on himself.

"Come on, d'Artagnan! You're better than this! Come on!", Porthos growled with his fists tightening around his chair so much that his knuckles cracked. Constance could relate exactly, feeling uncertain and worried herself. "Come back", she whispered, horrified. What if she'd sent him back to his own personal hell for nothing?

Events certainly weren't progressing well and when she heard d'Artagnan's low moan of pain, she felt like she was drowning. What had she done? Slowly, she stepped back a few paces until her back collided with the wall. Her hands were covering her mouth, watching in horror as d'Artagnan began to struggle with enemies only he could see. That's when Aramis and Athos tried to intervene and things went downhill even faster, because at the sensation of hands on his body, d'Artagnan fought in earnest.

"Get off me!", he shouted frantically, kicking and slapping their touch away. Porthos joined the men, attempting to ground the youth by pulling at his shoulders, and received a boot in the stomach for his troubles. Stumbling back onto his derrière, he whistled, slightly impressed "Boy's got some bite behind his bark!"

"And as we can see, panic is a force to reckoned with", Aramis wheezed, ducking a flying fist. He'd lost his hat somewhere during the struggle, so his deeply troubled coutenance was clearly visible. They'd all been surprised by d'Artagnan's militantness and their tries do some damage control and wake the musketeer from his nightmare were proving futile. He was trapped in it like a fly in a spider's net.

Already, Aramis had stepped back in order to allow the boy to wear himself out, but Athos couldn't leave him to his torment and resorted to more drastic actions. With his flat hand, he slapped d'Artagnan, probably assuming that would snap him out of it like it had before in the dungeon. It didn't. Instead, Athos found himself being taken hold of by the collar and, with a foot pressed against his hipbone, being energetically flipped right over the settee to crash onto his back.

Constance winced in sympathy, albeit concluding that the astonished look on Athos' face would have been hilarious if not for the circumstances. Then her focus shifted anew as her lover sprung up like a empty-eyed Jack in the box, stumbled three steps to the door and left them in a cloud of dust. Being the closest to the door and the only person to be left standing, Constance bolted right after him.

* * *

Reality has been scheduled for regular maintenance, and thus is temporarily unreachable. Please stand by patiently and everything should be back to normal soon. Or not. d'Artagnan couldn't pull his thoughts back together, feeling his sanity slip through his grasp like grains of sand. It was frustrating, especially since there was a tiny person at the back of his mind screaming at him that he needed to wake up. And that he had to hurry. Who knew what his body was doing without a captain to steer the ship? He knew that he should care, he just couldn't collect enough pieces of the puzzle to figure out why.

There were shadows hovering around him, moving shapes that often coalescenced into solid, faceless shapes that bumped into him. Someone shoved him and he hit the dirt face-first. Above him, he could hear Remy's relentless taunting. Athos is dead. We're gonna kill her next. Constance. And Aramis. Slowly. We're going to break them, and you get to watch. Porthos bled out in the gutter. You're going to die here, all on your own, brat. Where are your precious friends now?

He didn't know the answer to the question. He didn't even know where his own body was. He didn't know where his mind was. So what do you know? That was the tiny voice again, piercing through the sandstorm. d'Artagnan hesitated, felt his body rest in the cold dirt, heedless of the angry voices around him. He did know that he was a musketeer. He knew that he was in love with Constance. He knew, above all, that they'd never abandon him. So the next time somebody reached for him, he didn't push them away and trusted his family to take care of him.

* * *

"What are you doing, you crazy fool?", Constance hissed while she raced after his fleeing form. Purposefully, she ignored the stare of Beatrice the carpenter's wife and the whispers that followed her race like an echo of her steps on the cobblestones. If people wanted to gossip in order to forget their own uneventful lifes, they'd at least have something interesting to tell this time. Her feet carried her over the market with sure strides, and every then and again she caught glimpses of d'Artagnan through the mass of Parisians.

Thankfully, he wasn't as fast as he usually was. Constance doubted she would have been able to keep up in that case. But now? With her heart beating wildly in her chest and her singular goal not to let everyone down bolstering her endurance, she prevailed. Once Constance saw him disappear into a small alley halfway between the Palace and the Garrisson that was also a dead end, she slowed beside its entrance, puffing out a relieved breath.

"I know you're in there", she said softly, hoping against all reason that he would hear her, "I'm not going to hurt you, d'Artagnan."

She finally found him lying on the floor like a discarded doll. He looked awful, of course, but she'd seen worse. They'd be alright in time, she only had to get him back where he belonged. She was about to stop a passerby and ask for help when she spotted a group of three Red Guards strolling through the market. Upon uttering a few choice words she'd learned from a very drunk sailor once, Constance turned to d'Artagnan. Since she'd arrived, he hadn't moved at all.

"d'Artagnan, love? I need you to move, alright? I need you to come with me and wake up, for heaven's sake!", she told him. Lack of time made her reckless, or perhaps she was just too similar to the young musketeer in disposition, but Constance leaned in and placed a sweet, longing kiss on his lips, surprised when an arm snaked around her waist in such a typical movement that she involuntarily sighed against him. "d'Artagnan?"

"Constance?"

* * *

Now that he was back at the helm, he was bombarded with images. The greasy, dirty walls around him were a cause for confusion as the last thing he remembered was being in Athos' appartments, yet he wasn't overly unhappy. Constance's closeness made up for the less comfortable surroundings. Nonetheless, he had to fill in the gaps.

"I made a mess of things, didn't I?", he asked, which prompted her to giggle. "You kicked Porthos. And you threw Athos over your shoulder, kind of. It was pretty a impressing display of skill, actually."

d'Artagnan looked at her, trying to gauge whether she was jesting, which clearly she was not. Upon realizing that fact, he scratched his brow and swallowed. "I'm impressed myself. Didn't know I could do that. Also, Aramis is never going to let Porthos live that down, let alone stop teasing Athos about it", he said thoughfully.

"I'm glad you see the humor in it", Constance replied, then rose from her crouch and dragged him with her. "But we better go before..."

"... those guys show up. Too late now, it seems", d'Artagnan completed her sentence, causing her to turn. He was right. Three shapes in red and black uniforms were blocking their only escape route. Refexively, d'Artagnan pulled Constance behind him and approached the men with as much of a casual demeanor as he could. Those men were like sharks, they'd smell weakness.

"What do we have here?", the biggest of them sneered, "a young naughty couple being interruped, perhaps?"

"One lonesome musketeer and his whore", another joined in. It was their fault, really, for insulting Constance. Offences against his own person, d'Artagnan had learned to take, but this was too much, his tolerance worn down to non-existent by his ordeal during the last fortnight. They couldn't have known and most likely had only seen that he was unarmed, thinking him defenseless. Obviously, they'd never met the Inseperables and as the first one fell due to the low roundhouse-kick d'Artagnan had executed, the remaining two charged him.

d'Artagnan welcomed the thrill of fighting, basking in his quick reflexes and the way the world made sense for a few moments. An elbow clipped his temple, but the youth hardly noticed, retaliating with an uppercut that broke the bloke's nose. While his friend retreated, the third man pulled a long, serrated knife out of his belt. Even though his blood was still chanting with war-songs, d'Artagnan wasn't stupid enough to attack and risk Constance's safety. Therefore, he was glad when the alley was once again venue of a new arrival.

"Porthos! Good timing."

"You feeling better?", the man inquired with a mischievous glance at the two groaning men and a glare that had the third backing off.

"Much, thank you", d'Artagnan replied with dignity. He draped one arm over Constance, wanting to keep her close. And if he was honest, he would admit that he was grateful for the support as well. Together, the three of them walked back to Athos' house and met up with the rest of the group there.

Once they arrived, Athos, Porthos and Aramis shared a long meaningful glance. d'Artagnan nodded at them as he passed by, no words necessary to convey his apology. They nodded back, perhaps a little less enthusiastic than usual. As Aramis ordered them all to eat something just in case shock set in soon, d'Artagnan surmised that they were still worried. Well, so was he. "I might need to leave the musketeers. Right now I'm a danger to everyone around me.", he slurred, mouth full of stew.

"No", Athos replied forcefully, reminding d'Artagnan of the promise his mentor had made. Oh, how much he wished the swordsman would be able to keep it. Nevertheless, over the last week and their countless attempts to desensitize him to the signals, reality had begun to set in. He might never be able to conquer his problems and he would be damned if he let any harm come to his brothers because of his mental weakness.

Upon voicing that concern, Aramis shook his head. "There might be another therapy we can try. You'd need someone to help you, though. That someone should be a person you trust one hundred percent."

"Athos", d'Artagnan answered without hesitation, only then noticing the release of tension in the air. Aramis snorted, seemingly happy that things were normal at least in that regard. "That's settled then. We'll talk about the rest tomorrow. Now I think you might need a nap, you look like death warmed over."

"Thanks for the compliment", d'Artagnan quipped, although he already did feel the pull of sleep.

* * *

Constance observed d'Artagnan's flagging frame with nervous butterflies in her stomach, glad she'd been able to get through to him but concerned for his future. Without the musketeers, what would become of him? It was when Athos and Aramis didn't comment until d'Artagnan was fully asleep in his chair, spoon still in hand, that she knew for certain that something was up. Cornering Aramis before he could reach the slumbering d'Artagnan, she held him back. "What did you do?"

"I'm trying to help, please trust us on this." And she did. Sighing and knowing the tone indicated that she wasn't wanted here, Constance got up.

"Please make sure he's alright", she pleaded on her way towards the door. She was halfway out of the building when she heard Ahos dark voice pose a question. "You think he'll ever forgive us for this?" and Aramis grim reply "If it works, he will. If not, none of it really matters anyways, does it?"

* * *

 **A/N** : Stay tuned for the next chapter and the big finale with a twist! ;)  
Also, the next chapter is (perhaps) the last chapter, so is there anything in particular you'd love to see?  
And as always, please make my day and leave a **review**!


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N** : Sorry for the late update! I spontaneously went to Naples, Italy on vacation and as it was one of those "If you want to go, you'll need to pack and be at the airport in two hours"-decisions, I didn't have time to inform anyone... and we didn't have much internet while hiking in the mountains.  
Anyways, I'm back now and here's the next chapter of the story,'cause I hope some of you are still following it. **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter 17**

He'd never know what hit him. The boy was asleep in the bed that wasn't his, in the house that wasn't his. Three men were stationed outside, watching the boy. They were staring silently, ill-intent and the pain to come occupying their thoughts. Slowly and in unison, they pulled black masks over their faces before they silently entered the building without alerting anyone to their stalking presence.

The door to the boy's room was locked, so the man with the red-rimmed mask nodded at the biggest of them, whose face was hidden by black and blue cover. Blue hestitated for a moment, suspending the last moment of quiet. Then his boot hit the wood with a cloud crack. Enough to wake the boy, which spurred the men to hurry.

As soon as Blue's second kick had splintered the wood, they convered on the drowsy occupant of the bed. His brown eyes went wide with panic, the hand with the broken fingers stuck halfway on his way to brush his dark hair out of his face. "What...?", he began, only to choke off as Blue hauled him out of the bed by his neck and threw him to the cold floor.

"Remy sends his regards", the third man snarled. The green edges around his mask glinted in the moonlight as he advanced on the boy who was fighting to get to his knees, struggling against Blue. His bare feet were scratching against the wooden planks beneath him, trying desperately to find purchase. Both his arms were curled around Blue's fingers, pushing to pry them loose from his throat. Blue sniggered and let himself be dislodged, then used his other hand to pull the resisting youth forwards by his hair. "Musketeer scum!"

Unbalanced and still frantic, the boy didn't react fast enough and was again tossed to the ground as if he didn't weigh more than a sack of flour. Skidding across the wood, he sprawled awkwardly on his stomach in front of Red, who was staring down at him with an unreadable look in his hooded eyes. The man didn't move a muscle as Green spiritedly put down a boot on the boy's back, pinning him in place like an insect pierced to a wall.

"You didn't think the comte would ever let you go, did you, d'Artagnan?", Red asked, revealing that they knew exactly who he was. Despite ambushing him in his sleep and having mopped the floor with him, the men encountered a surprising amount of resistance. A spark of defiance, maybe. When the boy spoke, his voice was filled equally with fear and anger.

"What do you want?"

"Why, revenge of course", Green answered, resting a hand on the knee of the leg pressing down on the Gascon, damaging his bruised ribs. d'Artagnan gasped, wriggling as much as he could to get free, but the men just laughed at his efforts. Blue produced a set of handcuffs, which after a quick and brutal punch to the face in order to keep him still, were placed on d'Artagnan's wrists. After accomplishing that task, Blue kicked the boy in the side, just hard enough to prompt a hiss from their captive, then he turned and nodded to his companion in red.

The man advanced on d'Artagnan, no doubt noticing how the boy's breathing again picked up the pace and his terrified expression. Wordlessly, he stopped, hands crossed in front of his chest. Seconds ticked by and nothing happened.

Impatiently, Green shifted his hold downwards, his boot dragging down d'Artagnan's back until it rested right above his bandaged wound. Although it had healed well and the infection was long gone, the boy couldn't suppress a shout of pain as Green's callous treatment reopened the wound. Red stepped back once before he caught himself, causing Green to look up at him sharply.

"You good?"

Red nodded, whereupon Green retreated, leaving a panting and shackled d'Artagnan to catch his breath and scoot back from the trio. Green got down to eye-level for a moment, checking on the boy's pupils, which were huge and switching back and forth erratically.

"I think we're fine", he told Blue and Red. Blue huffed and left the room quickly, followed by Green who'd only paused a moment to squeeze Red's shoulder. The last remaining man sighed quietly, then Athos took off his black-and-red mask and fixed his hard, merciless gaze on the boy .

* * *

Athos had drawn the line when Aramis had suggested putting a collar on d'Artagnan again. They'd been trying to come up with ways to push the Gascon into his nightmares as deep as possible without physically hurting him too much, he knew that. Perhaps it was his past experiences with his wife, but Athos hadn't been able to stomach the thought. He'd also insisted that after the initial takedown, Porthos and Aramis would give him some room. They were nevertheless hovering outside now as surely as the sun rose in the east.

With a look outside at the dark streets below, Athos confirmed that dawn was still hours away. Hours that would either make or break them. Both of them, really, because as Athos looked at d'Artagnan, who stared back fearfully without any recognition, he realized that if he couldn't keep his promise, he would be as lost as the Gason boy.

Anxious to get the night over with, Athos stepped closer. In reaction, d'Artagnan began to tremble, mumbling something about how Remy would break all his fingers this time. His hand, Athos noted with a twist in his own stomach, was again cradled protectively against his chest. It took more effort than beating Porthos in hand to hand combat, but Athos grabbed d'Artagnan's broken fingers, pulling them towards himself, which elicited a series of whispers and sounds of pain from the boy. Still, d'Artagnan wasn't fighting back any more.

"I'm not going to use my boots this time", Athos threatened, "They're too good for you, brat. I'm going to use a hammer that will not leave anything behind to be repaired. You shall never carry a sword again." The last sentence was meant to be a reminder, a call to d'Artagnan's musketeer reflexes. It went unanswered, though.

Instead, the young man receded further into himself. In the dimness of the room's corner, Athos hadn't been able to see it, but now that he had dragged the youth into the middle of the room, he could see silent tears roll down d'Artagnan's cheeks. Too afraid to even cry out, his mind supplied unhelpfully.

"No last words before you loose that hand?", he demanded, turning his voice into a sneer when he discarded the shackles and went for d'Artagnan's jaw in compensation, much like Constance had done before. Actually, most of their actions had been a repitition of the trauma the young musketeer had endured, starting with the chains and ending with the boot that pushed him down the same way the men at the barn had done. They'd hoped to trigger a sense of déjà-vu. So far, that hope was unfulfilled and Athos was loosing the battle with despair when d'Artagnan didn't even try to wrench free from his captor's grip.

"C'mon, brat, you're never that tight-mouthed."

As he couldn't bear the thought of further injuring those fingers, Athos let go of his little brother. Upon seeing no reaction whatsoever, he guiltily drove his fist into the boy's stomach, carefully avoiding the ribs. Nonetheless, d'Artagnan went down gasping. Athos rolled him over with his foot, glaring. "Get up."

To say he was uncomfortable in his role would have been the understatement of the century. Athos had never had a sadistic streak and quite frankly, he didn't know what to do with the helpless boy lying in front of him. He'd expected to have a fight at his hands. A fight he could deal with. This surrender, however, was slowly but surely breaking him to pieces.

"I said", he commanded roughly, "Get up!"

d'Artagnan stirred weakly, laboriously complying. Athos helped him along onto his knees, then standing up again. Both of them were breathing hard, d'Artagnan's loud rasping overpowering Athos quieter sounds of exertion as he pulled the mostly dead weight back up. Even though he left himself open to attack the whole time, d'Artagnan just wouldn't cease his chances.

Their ploy to have him relive his nightmare and come out victorious was falling at the first hurdle and Athos didn't know how to proceed. He knew they only had this one chance. They'd needed d'Artagnan to be a clueless victim for the deceit to work, needing the drugs they'd mixed into his stew after a long and heated discussion on the limits of this endeavour to take effect before they'd started. If the sun rose today and d'Artagnan wasn't cured, they'd completely and thoroughly failed their friend.

Athos pushed d'Artagnan away so that he dashed against the table, disgusted at his own inability to help. The boy groaned upon impact, the table's edge boring into his wounded back and Athos winced, then balled his fists angrily. He needed to stop being whimsy about this or else it wouldn't work.

Clenching his teeth, he began to taunt d'Artagnan about the things he'd confessed that the impostor had used: his friends, his childhood and his heritage. The Gascon flinched, shaking, his chains clanking against each other. "You will die here." Or I might if you don't fight back soon, Athos added silently, again looming over the frightened, drugged out of his mind musketeer. Fight this!

As if to answer his heartfelt prayer, footsteps and angry voices were heard outside. When the door was thrown open so forcefully it bounced right back against the entering shape, Athos pivoted. And gaped as a shirtless, rope-bound, bleeding from a split lip Aramis was shoved into the room.

* * *

d'Artagnan's world was dyed grey. Grey and red and black. The colors had deserted him after the manacles snapped shut around his still tender wrists and he'd finally understood that he'd die in Remy's clutches. Perhaps his time to recuperate in the nicer room of Remy's mansion was finally over, his mind had supplied, trying to make sense of his jumbled memories.

Hadn't he been rescued? No, that had happened thousands of times and each time it had been a ruse to get him to tell secrets that weren't his. So he was still stuck and would never get out.

He could see the cell around him, be blood and the creepy crawlies. The smell of musk was overpowering in the small room as the three men had begun to throw him around like garbage and continued to hurt him. Ouvrard, Germain the mountain and Remy. Always Remy. At first, d'Artagnan had thought they wore masks, which was absurd of course. Why would they, in their own dungeons?

Thoughts were flowing out of him as if he were a leaky bottle of wine, blood-red and irretrievable. Soon, he felt as if he was nothing but a husk, a hollow shell of the man he used to be. He might break open and there would be nothing inside. Couldn't he already see the fine cracks on his grey skin? Not too long now.

"Get up!" The voice penetrated the familiar fog around his brain, but it wasn't easy to do what was asked if you were drowning in beetles at the same time as bleeding out from cracks in your stone skin. And if you didn't have any muscles because you were a tin man.

Lethargically, he tried to push some of the black vermin off him, but the shackles limited his movement. The room swam in front of his eyes, the beetles crawling over his body even as he was pushed up. As he stared into Remy's surprisingly intelligent eyes, he was reminded of Athos. The musketeer wouldn't want him to give up. Even if the swordsman was dead as Remy had promised him. d'Artagnan began to shake at the memory. Could it be true? Had he lost all of what mattered?

Remy's words were distant, his voice like the buzzing of a bee against his ears. It was cut off by the loud opening of the cell's door. Instinctively, d'Artagnan turned partially to assess the new foes, catching his breath as no underling but a constrained man tumbled inside. Recognition hit instantly. Holy hell, Aramis! Immediately, d'Artagnan's pulse quickened, his heart in an uproar although his mind was still suspicious.

This had happened before, he tried to caution himself, they were never real before. But it had never been like this. It had never been another prisoner, only incorporeal, soulless ghosts of brothers lost. Never had one of them been bleeding.

d'Artagnan blinked slowly. Then again. A little bit faster. A little bit more alive. His unclouded eyes zeroed in on Remy, who was pulling a knife out of his belt, his gleefull eyes on Aramis' helpless form on the earth. Both the marksman's hands and feet were secured by thick strands of rope. There would be no escape from Remy and that knife unless someone provided it for him.

Someone like me. d'Artagnan straightened behind Remy's back, his heart beating determination like fire through his cold veins. He didn't need his treacherous mind to confirm his brother's identity. He felt it. And he would always, always protect his brothers.

* * *

Athos quickly debated whether Porthos had lost his mind, too, as he saw the dark-skinned musketeer manhandle Aramis over the doorstep, sending him down to the floor with a mean shove. Athos thought about catching his friend, but a slip-up would end this charade on the spot and he wasn't quite ready to abandon ship yet.

A look towards Porthos prevented any further inner discussion of the matter, because even if the man couldn't hide his satisfaction on paying Aramis back for all the teasing he'd had to endure on a regular basis, his mouth was set in a grim, serious line. Play along, he seemed to say, I'm as unhappy with this as you are, but he made me.

Alright. He could do that. With this decision made, Athos tugged a dagger from its scabbard and swirled it around his fingers experimentally. Two long strides brought him over to Aramis, his fingers still playing with the blade skillfully. He only stilled the movement as he bent down and let his eyes roam over Aramis toned torso with a grin as sleazy as he could muster. "I'm going to cut..."

"No!" They both jumped with suprise at d'Artagnan's roar of fury, Aramis whispering a short warning before d'Artagnan pounced on Athos, who couldn't evade the boy entirely. They went flying, tripping over Aramis and falling with their legs atop him, prompting an "Oomph" from the Spaniard.

Athos wanted to roll gracefully, but his chest hurt too much to even try. Using it for impact hadn't been the smartest move he'd ever exacted either. Without time to catch his breath or search for the lost weapon, Athos had to fend of a rain of blows from the young Gascon that were increasingly precise and organized. It was almost like a sparring session as Athos tested his opponent's footwork and d'Artagnan followed through the motions. The older musketeer let himself be forced back from the door, reminding himself that he needed to loose and not being too certain how to achieve that without worsening the throbbing hole in his chest.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan had successfully positioned himself between who he perceived to be Remy and his prisoner and some of the boy's tension eased. His eyes, however, relentlessly burned with hatred. He'd also picked up the knife while Athos had been distracted with his own pain.

Cursing his inattention silently because things had just gotten serious in a way none of them had anticipated, Athos sidestepped the slice at his belly. He ducked another swing and then used his left arm to block d'Artagnan's right wrist as it came round again. Unfortunately, d'Artagnan must have anticipated the move, because he was quick off the mark and simply brought up his knee on the other side and embedded it in Athos' stomach.

However, Athos was experienced and wasn't bested that easily: he took the hit willingly in order to use his free hand to snap back the youth's wrist and thus dislodged the weapon from his fingers, which d'Artagnan compensated for by turning his whole body into Athos so they stood with d'Artagnan's back against Athos' chest. And then the insolent fighter actually caught the falling blade with his other, broken hand. Damn him, but the kid was getting good at this.

Athos smirked proudly, pushing the youth towards Aramis again, but d'Artagnan braced his feet against the force and shot back his elbows. Normally, Athos would have endured the blow and placed his enemy in a choke-hold. Careful of his wound, though, he moved backwards, not entirely fast enough. The boy's bony limb grazed him, igniting so much pain in his chest that Athos gasped. He saw Aramis concern as Athos' hands clamped themselves over the puncture in his skin.

d'Artagnan, too, followed the movement with his eyes and something in his stance changed. His arms fell to his side as he cocked his head, staring at Athos intently. "You're wounded", he muttered. "You're wounded because Amantine stabbed you! Oh my god, Athos, I... what... I don't..."

His knees buckled, but Athos was there to catch him. The moment d'Artagnan said his name, he knew he was no longer in danger of being skewered by the distraught youth. Instead, he had his brother back. d'Artagnan was finally back with them and maybe, Athos hadn't failed utterly. Relieved, Athos buried his face in d'Artagnan's sweat-soaked hair and held him tightly as the boy sobbed. The warm hands encircling own his body in return were a constant reminder to Athos that d'Artagnan was still with him,slowly placing Athos' core back in balance. He could breathe again. Over the boy's shoulder, Athos glanced at Aramis, who didn't move, obviously content to see the reunion and healing between his brothers.

Eventually, d'Artagnan calmed down, exhausted and embarrassed at having cried in front of them. Aramis had apparently seen the pink color on d'Artagnan's cheeks and grinned. "I'm the one lying here trussed up and without a shirt to cover my modesty, and you're the one blushing?"

And even though d'Artagnan didn't answer, the tired smile they received in return was more than enough. Carefully, Athos and d'Artagnan stood, supporting each other. Athos was surprised how much he needed the boy's strength, swaying a bit. Perceptive as ever, d'Artagnan caught him at it, furrowing his brow when Athos waved him off and guided d'Artagnan back to the bed, where the boy collapsed onto the sheets.

"I hope we don't have patrol tomorrow, 'casue I'm going to sleep for a decade at least", he groaned, prompting a laugh from Porthos, who'd just entered after being called by Aramis."So all is back to normal, then?", he sniped back. D'Artagnan had already travelled too far into the lands of dreams to answer, but Athos nodded, eyes still on the boy. "Yes."

They probably should have gone downstairs to care for Athos' aches or at least to find Aramis a shirt, yet none of them wanted to leave their little brother's side. So they simply sat around his bed and watched him sleep peacefully for the first time in a fortnight.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N** : This is it, guys! The eighteenth and **final chapter** to this story. I hope you had as much fun reading it as I had writing it and that you find this installment satisfactory. ;)  
Also, I'd love to end this story with **150 reviews** (or perhaps even more?). Can we get there? Maybe? Please? All you silent followers out there, young and old readers, critics and flatterers, new friends and loyal reviewers, please leave your opinion on the chapter or the whole story down below and make my dream come true!  
 **Thank you** so much for taking the time to read "I dare you to move"!

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

The sound of harsh voices caused him to rise from sleep. For a while, d'Artagnan just lay there with his eyes closed, making sense of things. The room was cold, filled with fresh air as if someone had opened all the windows recently to let in the night. In contrast, he was in bed, tucked in well and feeling warm and mostly comfortable. As to what had happened... he wasn't entirely sure. Although foggy, he remembered being ambushed and, with perfect clarity, the moment he had recognized Athos as his attacker. Or had it been him that had attacked Athos? Was he going truly mad?

"'Tis was madness from the beginning", Porthos said, somewhere off to d'Artagnan's right, seemingly agreeing with the boy, who couldn't suppress a wince at the angry words. When he continued, things took a different turn, however. "Should'na have done that."

"It was a good plan. The only plan, the only choice we had", Aramis argued back and although d'Artagnan still suspected they were talking about him, he was clearly missing some context. Meanwhile, heavy footsteps announced that Porthos was coming over to his bedside. Unwilling to be discovered and sheltered from events yet, d'Artagnan evened his breathing and relaxed his features into a semblance of sleep. He nearly jerked in surprise when he felt the big, calloused, warm hand of the man caress his brow.

"Look at him. He's exhausted after all we put him through. When he wakes up, he's gonna hate us. I... " The fingers lingered on his left temple. "Should'na have hit him that hard. Shoul'na have hit him at all."

"You had to", Aramis said and d'Artagnan could almost see him placing a supportive hand on Porthos. At the mention of the blow to his face, the young musketeer felt it, the dull throbbing of the injury. However, he also notices immediately that it hurt a lot less that a full-on hit from the giant, which meant the violence last evening had been a measured, controlled thing.

"Easy for you to say", a third voice intoned grimly from further away. D'Artagnan heard glass clinking and imagined Athos filling another cup with wine, his preferred method of coping. Wishing he could get up and slap away the drink before it could reach his lips, d'Artagnan tensed but resigned himself to wait. Aramis had no such inhibitions.

"What are you suggesting?", he asked the swordsman, voice carefully flat.

"You sure had no problem torturing the boy", Athos said, equally devoid of emotion even though d'Artagnan knew that the exact opposite had to be the case if the normally even tempered man was verbally skewering Aramis with his sword. Aramis, protective and caring Aramis, gasped as if hit.

"Of course it wasn't easy. None of this has been easy! Confrontational therapy isn't pleasant, that's why it's a measure of last resort. But it had to be done. Dr. Lemay said..."

"I don't care what he said!", Athos exploded, chair scraping back as he supposedly rose to his feet. "d'Artagnan is our brother. He was in need of our help and what did we give him? More pain, more trauma, more betrayal!"

As he heard Athos approach Aramis with murder on his mind, d'Artagnan decided it was high time he prevented Athos from doing something he'd certainly regret later. Snapping his eyes open, d'Artagnan sat himself up, earning himself a surprised expression from Porthos, who was standing next to him close to the bed.

"Athos." His voice was smaller, more hoarse than d'Artagnan had anticipated, but the quiet word froze the two furious men as effectively as one of Treville's barked commands. Both Aramis and Athos turned to stare their youngest member with varying degrees of astonishment, guilt and warmth.

"Hey there", Porthos remarked, kindly helping him rest against the heardboard.

"How much did you hear?", Athos inquired sharply, although his stance had lost some of its momentum. He still looked pale with anger, shaking slightly.

"Enough."

"Look, d'Artagnan, we're... I am sorry about what happened last night", Aramis corrected himself with a sidelong glance at his steaming friend. "It must have been a terrible experience."

"Wasn't fun", the Gascon admitted, prompting Athos' mood to become even darker.

"You still did the right thing, though. I think I'm better now", he added quickly, unable to fully explain the feeling of steadiness in his chest like he was finally grounded, anchored in reality. At Athos' disbelieving snort, d'Artagnan bristled, glaring at his mentor.

"You think I'm lying. Fine. Test me. Aramis, come here and snap your fingers or something. I promise I shall be absolutely fine."

"d'Artagnan...", Athos warned lowly, almost like a growl. Aramis looked at each of them, torn between Athos' cold fury and the beseeching expression on d'Artagnan's face.

"I don't think that's a good idea...", he said apologetically, only to be overruled by Porthos, who had grabbed the musk parfum and sprayed it right at d'Artagnan's face in a practical manner, then snapped his fingers loudly.

To the underprepared d'Artagnan, the sound felt like thunderclap, making him wince visibly. Gritting his teeth, the Gascon withstood the urge to let himself drift and focused his slanted eyes directly on Athos. After a few deep breaths, he didn't pretended to be unaffected entirely, shrugging as non-chalantly as he could manage. "Phew, that was more intense than I thought. But, really, I'm alright. See? I'm good, no throwing punches and behaving erratically."

Aramis sighed, sitting back down on a chair at the table to rake a hand through his hair. "Thank God it's finally over", he said, perhaps a bit prematurely. After all, Athos was anything but pacified. Deciding to give teacher and student some room, Aramis and Porthos went out for some early breakfast, leaving a bone-tired d'Artagnan with an unreadable Athos.

"So it was you who stayed with me? Who... made sure I got better?", d'Artagnan asked in a serious manner, not enjoying the silence but hesitating on the phrasing. Athos simply nodded.

"Thank you." He had meant it, but Athos obviously wasn't ready to accept his gratitude. Instead, he turned away from d'Artagnan's gaze that pleaded peace and left the room with wide steps akin to an escape. D'Artagnan looked after his slightly swaying form, concern knotting in his gut. This discussion was far from over yet.

* * *

When d'Artagnan woke again, he knew that some time had passed. For one, his thoughts were clear and a lot lighter now that there was balmy sunlight to fuel them. Secondly, his stomach was growling.

"Seems like Sleeping Beauty is gracing us with her presence!", Aramis quipped happily. d'Artagnan cracked open one eye to spot the Spaniard lounging at the table and flip him off. When that didn't yield a satisfactory outcome, he cleared his throat and asked whether he'd ever get rid of that bothersome title.

"After bein' kissed awake like a true princess, not likely", Porthos commented. Confused and a little bit disconcerted, d'Artagnan rose to his elbows, noticing yet another fresh bandage around his damaged fingers.

"Wait, what? Which one of you... oh. Constance. In the alley. Alright, I remember", he said hastily as Aramis began to rise, clearly wanting to check for a concussion. d'Artagnan was certain he didn't have one, though. His muscles were pleasantly sore like after a long day of training, but apart from that, he actually felt good. As he marvelled at that realization and leaned back into his mountain of soft pillows, he noticed that another bed had been brought into the room and Athos was occupying it, his face flat against a pillow. Sylvie was sitting on the edge, running her hand through Athos' hair with a reassuring smile in d'Artagnan's direction.

"What happened?", d'Artagnan asked, fearful of the answer. Had he hurt his mentor? He couldn't remember anything but a few glancing blows, but his recollection of last night's events was patchy at best. "Did I do this?"

"Nope", Aramis replied cheerfully, "that idiot developed a fever due to the infection in his chest wound. He must have forgotten to mention that to us in his ever so wise ways."

"Hey, I heard that", complained a voice from the bed. Although the body in it hadn't moved an inch, it had most certainly been Athos. d'Artagnan smirked at him. Busted!

"Did you really allow Sylvie to pet you while you were awake?", he teased, completely relaxed for the first time since the fateful mission had started. Athos somehow managed a careless shrug lying down. "So what? It's nice."

"Well, thank you", Sylvie said, looking pleased to have tamed the untamable Athos of the Musketeers, if only for a little while. She informed him that Constance had just left to freshen up and wouldn't be back for a while, so d'Artagnan banked his disappointment at not seeing the red-haired beauty. As long as she was coming back, he could be patient.

"So when are we expected back at the Garrisson?", he asked, focusing on other things. Porthos smirked, obviously this had been a topic of discussion before.

"Aramis went to Treville yesterday and requested three days leave to fix you. And when he went back with that split lip of his today, the Capt'n noticed and ordered us all on a week of vacation."

"That's great news", d'Artagnan said happily, "We'll have plenty of time together and get back to par."

"Are you mad?", Athos interjected, "A week in the company of Aramis and we'll return speaking Spanish. Or worse, wearing ridiculous light blue hats like him!"

"What's wrong with my hat?"

"It's impractical."

"It's the lastest fashion."

"It gets muddy all the time and then you insist on having it cleaned at the next Inn."

"It suits my complexion."

"It's not even rainproof."

"But it's a hit with the ladies."

"Hah! There's the real reason revealed", Porthos cut in. d'Artagnan closed his eyes, enjoying Sylvie's laughter and the easy conversation of his friends. Most of all, he relished the feeling of having his mind back to himself. His curiosity grew rapidly when Aramis pulled a letter out of his jacket pocket that was adressed to them all. Saying he'd received it from their Captain today, the Spaniard began to read.

"The Lady Lemaigre invites us all to stay at her place if we ever return to the area again. Apparently, she is quite grateful, as is the comte. They're thinking about uniting their properties with a tie of marriage. One of the Lady's nieces is very fond of the comte", Aramis told them. D'Artagnan smiled, at least the mission had not only borne bad fruit but also a happy ending for two noble families.

"Good for them", Porthos echoed his thoughts.

They ate in companionable silence, the teasing reduced to a minimum in order to feast on fresh bread, fine venison, a variety of vegetables – and pastries. A shame Constance was absent, d'Artagnan mused as another sudden thought struck him.

"Who hit Aramis?", he wanted to know, interrupting a less than important discussion about the stupidity of the Red Guard. As if that wasn't an established fact already. Aramis touched two fingers to his lips, ghosting over the small cut. "Oh, that. We decided that a little improvisation was in order when you didn't fight Athos on your own. It had to be believable and we thought that a little blood might make all the difference. Pushing your protective instincts and all that."

"So you let someone punch you in the face, just on the small chance that it would help me?", d'Artagnan asked, unsure how to feel about Aramis' devotion to the cause. Next to him, Porthos sniggered, causing d'Artagnan to rise from his dark thoughts. "Naw, he had that one coming for a long time."

"Enjoyed that, did you?", Aramis asked good-naturedly, raising an eyebrow at Porthos' unabashed grin. They sniped at each other for another few minutes while d'Artagnan's gaze was slowly but surely drawn to Athos' coughing frame. Unlinke d'Artagnan, Athos hadn't been allowed out of bed for lunch and might need to stay there for a few days until nurse Aramis decided otherwise.

After Sylvie had left and Porthos began to clear away the dishes, Aramis checked on Athos first, placing a cool strip of cloth on Athos' forehead and ordering him to stay exactly where he was. The fact that the swordsman didn't argue alarmed d'Artagnan, but their medic wasn't worried too much, stating that they'd caught the fever just in time before it got dangerously high.

"Are you alright?", Aramis asked instead, settling next to the Gason in a mirror image of Sylvie on Athos' bed before the meal. His brown eyes were warm with happiness and d'Artagnan swallowed at the sudden lump in his throat. His emotions were still hightened and as he pulled the sharpshooter into a hug, he would blame it all on the drugs if someone caught the moisture in his eyes. d'Artagnan smiled as he felt Aramis hug him back just as tightly and then, after a long moment, clap him on the back twice in appreciation.

"Glad to have you back. For a moment, yesterday, I thought... well, let's not dwell on the past." Although Aramis smile was forced the first instance, it soon became genuine when he saw the boy's efforts to contain a mighty yawn. "It's alright, d'Artagnan. Your body will need some time to recuperate. Rest. And you", he pointed at Athos accusingly, "Stay."

Silence reigned when Aramis left the room. But it wasn't the uncomfortable, cold silence of before but rather a kinder, warmer sort. "Athos? You okay?", d'Artagnan inquired after a while.

"I'm afraid to move. Aramis will have my head on a pike if I misbehave", Athos confessed, light-hearted for once. d'Artagnan laughed. "I'm almost sorry I slept this long and missed Aramis finding out about your fever. It must have been quite the show."

"It was", Athos allowed, deliberately not elaborating, d'Artagnan suspected. For a few minutes just their breathing filled the space between them until the Gascon took heart and addressed his mentor once more. "I am sorry if I hurt you." This caused Athos to sit up sharply, the cloth falling into his lap. Astonished blue eyes looked at him.

"You're apologizing?"

"Yes, I know I-"

"d'Artagnan! We drugged you, dragged you out of bed in the middle of the night and then I went and beat you. You were acting in self-defense. What ever would lead you to believe you had to apologize?"

"I..."

"No. It is me who should beg your forgiveness."

"You?", d'Artagnan was equally surprised to hear the words come out of Athos' mouth. That man never retracted, always so certain of himself and his actions. Only one thing would prompt him to utter those words and d'Artagnan knew exactly what was going on here. Athos, being the man that he was, was blaming himself for everything bad that had happened. Now d'Artagnan was forced to agree with their medic.

"Aramis was right, you are an idiot", he told Athos in clear terms, causing the accused to lift an eyebrow.

"You were pushing me past my limits and saved my sorry ass in the process."

"I deliberately tortured you, d'Artagnan", Athos emphasized again, obviously trying to make d'Artagnan understand. And the youth understood exactly, so he borrowed a term from Porthos.

"Rubbish! I received worse in training" Needing to drive his point home, he got up and stalked over to the swordsman, grasping him by both shoulders. "You are the reason I am standing here before you today, whole and sane. My mind is my own, Athos, and you accomplished that. Thank you, brother."

"You're not blaming me?" The older musketeer still seemed to struggle with the concept of forgiveness.

"No! No, no, three times no! Not for leaving me at the barn, not for finishing the mission first, not for pulling me back from living a nightmare." And with that, finally, d'Artagnan could see the guilt clear from Athos' expression. His eyes seemed less haunted than before and his posture eased, the tensed muscles in his back no longer holding him up rigidly.

"And if you dare have a bad conscience about it ever again, I will tell Aramis that you moved and he will go raving mad", d'Artagnan teased, causing his mentor to quickly put the cloth back on and lie down. d'Artagnan, too, felt exhaustion coming over him and went back to his own bed.

"You wouldn't." Athos actually looked a tiny bit concerned and d'Artagnan wasn't above using all means possible. "Yes, I would!"

"Seems I have no choice in the matter", Athos stated quietly and thoughfully after d'Artagnan had made himself comfortable. The boy nodded, grinning in a tired but entirely satisfied manner. "Exactly."

"Why does everyone insist on bossing me around as soon as I'm sick?", Athos mused without much seriousness. Nevertheless, d'Artagnan replied honestly. "Because that's what we do. We take care of each other."

"All for one", Aramis and Porthos concurred from the doorway, prompting d'Artagnan and Athos to smile contentedly.


End file.
